Pretty Noose
by SentientSurfer
Summary: The story of a legionary deserter, a vengeful shaman, and a one-eyed wanderer who roam the wastes outside of Zion.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Click on my profile and check out my e-book - The Book of the Nine Ides

Pretty Noose

**Chapter 1**

Christ on the Cross

My name is Andronicus Io. I am a poet, historian, and foot solider in Caesar's XXV Legion. Though I've fought bravely in many battles, when faced with certain death, I deserted my post. For my cowardice, my centurion had me crucified.

Now my broken body hangs upon a wooden cross.

The sun is setting far in front of me. A giant ball of fire. I stare directly at it, letting it burn itself into my retinas. My chest aches. Each breath, agony. Slaves used to tell me you suffocate from crucifixion. I never understood why, until now.

I look over at my hands. They're lashed to the bleached wood, not nailed to it. I don't know why. The legion's lands are rich in iron and ash-choked from the fires of thousands of smelters. Maybe it's just to elongate my suffering. I'm in too much pain to think about it further. A cool wind rolls over the hills and blows against my sunburned skin.

The setting sun, the cool, night wind, the gentle, orange, scrub-capped hills; these will be my last memories. I wish I could have painted this. Preserve my consciousness as scribbles on canvas for everyone to see once I'm forgotten.

I picture a candle being snuffed out by wet fingertips. Its flame reduced to a thin coil of smoke. Then embers. Then nothing. Only its shell, a pale pillar of wax, remains. That candle is me. My shell; my body.

Once I'm extinguished, what's left?

Smoke? Soul? Essence? Anything?

Religion leaves me unconvinced. Caesar's pantheon and the Old World Bible read like fairytales, spun by the dead to keep the living ever-hopeful and obedient. Slaves to an imagined afterlife. There is no bearded man in the sky. No gods. No masters. Just oblivion. An unfathomable state of non-being.

That's why I have to savor the dregs of my life, like I'm doing now. Keep yearning for more, regardless of the pain. If there is a God, my only prayer to Him is to let these final few hours on the cross last an eternity. Let me bask in them. Cherish my consciousness until the moment its gone.

I lower my eyes. My legionary uniform billows in the wind. Red-dyed wool and chainmail, fluttering. Footsteps slowly crunch their way down the gravel road that lies beside my cross.

Another traveler is coming to gape at me.

A tan, hooded shape approaches. A woman in brahmin skins. Most passersby by on this lonely road don't give me a second look. A glance at the cross, a nod of the head, a silent prayer, and they're off again. Some curse the legion and me with it. They pelt me with stones and mole rat dung. One pierced my side with a rusted spear. My ribcage still throbs from the wound, but it's no longer bleeding.

"You were a soldier? You were legion?"

This woman looks unremarkable. Her hood hides all, except for a few wisps of brown hair, and a tiny nose caked in desert grime. I try to answer her, but can't form words. There's too much pressure on my diaphragm.

"Why'd they do this to you?"

This question too, I cannot answer. I want to see her face, but it remains veiled. Her voice echoes in my mind. Its nice to hear a woman's voice. There's something comforting about it. It stirs up a long-forgotten memory of my mother. I can feel her gnarled hands cradling me, callused rock-hard from grinding maize on the grist stone from dusk till dawn.

For a brief moment, I feel like a child. I'd weep, but have no tears left to shed.

The woman below me is wearing a rucksack with a knife-spear looped through it. She frees the spear and comes closer to the cross, using the spear point to probe my bonds.

"You can't talk?"

I try to nod. My neck is too weak, chin locked against my chest. Instead, I nod with my eyes. She looks up at me, and I can finally see her face. Dirt-spattered, olive skin, brown eyes, matted, chestnut hair. Her mouth is crooked. The right corner is much higher than the left. I've always thought that people's faces have a vague resemblance to animals. My centurion looked like a Rottweiler. She looks like a fish.

The woman uses her spear to saw at my restraints, first the ones that are strangling my feet, then those on my right hand. I stay limp, and when my right hand is freed, I lurch forward off the dry wood. My left hand slips out of place, and I come crashing down into the dirt, too tired to speak or move.

The cross seems to have been the only thing holding me together. I feel worse without it, shattered and naked. The woman hovers over me. Things are both hot and cold at once, growing more extreme the closer I come to slipping away. Her voice is the only constant. What she's saying I can't comprehend, but it sounds like my mother singing me a lullaby.

**Chapter 2**

Kiss the Snake 

I wake up in the dirt, lying in the center of a small, brown tent. Its leather walls flap from a gust of wind. My head throbs. I go to sit up but can't move. My arms are tied to metal stakes that have been pounded deep into the dirt.

"Hello?"

The tent is mostly empty. An odd ornament hangs down from the ceiling; a copper hand with a single turquoise eye staring out of its palm. I feel something strange resting on my windpipe. I look down and see that a necklace of yao guai teeth has been looped around my neck. Each sharp tooth is stained with blood.

Two deathclaw horns are mounted upright in the dirt on either side of me, hemming me in. I wonder why they are there.

An altar perhaps?

Am I about to be sacrificed to some savage god?

"Hello?"

This time footsteps answer me. The tent flap rustles and the woman from before ducks inside. She kneels in the dirt and removes her hood. Her dirty hair puffs out. Greasy, tangled curls slowly migrate over chocolate-brown eyes. She looks weatherworn, but not haggard. I'd guess she's no older than thirty.

"Who are you?"

These words I can barely manage. The woman ignores them, and instead, picks a gourd up from the dirt and holds it to my cracked lips. The water that flows out of it is mildly irradiated. I gag at first and then take a few swallows. It burns as it floods my raw throat.

The woman pulls the gourd away and looms over me, staring down at my face with pitiless eyes.

"Why am I tied down? Who are you? What do you want from me?"

"What's your name?"

"Io. Andronicus Io. Who are you?"

"Twil."

I look over at my restraints. "Are you going to untie me, Twil?"

"Not yet." Twil sits down on the dirt. I need to crane my neck to see her. Her eyes narrow, examining my sunburned skin. "Why were you tied to that cross?"

"My centurion had me crucified."

"Why?"

I consider my answer. The tent walls flap. Raindrops tap against them, gently at first. A storm is brewing.

"Cowardice in battle."

My answer gives Twil pause. Her crooked mouth straightens. She wipes her nose and sniffs back mucous. It gurgles in her sinuses.

The sound makes my stomach churn.

"_Are you a coward_?"

"No." I struggle against my restraints, trying to bring Twil's attention back to them. "Why am I tied down? Why did you free me to tie me up again?"

"I need someone to help me get revenge. _Vengeance_." Twil bares her teeth as she says the word, clenching them like a rabid dog. "Are you good at fighting with a sword? Have you ever killed before?"

"Yes. But I couldn't fight a bloatfly now. I don't think I can even walk. I'm exhausted."

Twil rummages through her rucksack. She pulls out a fistful of green herbs, what looks like an unripe lemon, and a small, burlap bag. The bag seems to move on its own when she puts it aside. She rubs the herbs together in her hands, reducing them to a pulp. This wad of green gives off a strong, mentholated odor. She proceeds to rub this smelly mush against my chest, arms, and legs.

The salve has a cooling effect on my scorched skin. A bit of the pain melts away. A slight chill rocks my body.

Twil throws the pulp out of the tent and then peels the strange fruit with a paring knife. Its innards glisten. Juicy and blood red.

"You need sugar. Eat this."

This is an order, not a suggestion. She force-feeds a segment of the fruit to me, pushing it onto my tongue. Its incredibly sour. More so than a lemon. My whole face puckers up. I try to spit the fruit out, but she clasps her hand over my mouth until I swallow it. This pattern is repeated until I've eaten the entire fruit.

Once I'm finished, Twil turns her attention back to the burlap bag. She reaches inside and pulls out a black snake. An unfamiliar species of desert viper with a flared, cobra-like head. Its writhes in the air, wiggling desperately.

I despise snakes. A rattlesnake bit me on the leg when I was young. The bite nearly killed me. My hands and feet swelled up until they felt like they were going to burst. I remember my mother sticking by my bedside day and night, keeping vigil over her only child, mumbling prayers to an ancient, unnamed God.

When I see this snake, I reflexively tense. My exhausted muscles spasm in protest, shaking uncontrollably, making my pain even worse.

Twil grasps the snake just under the head. She then dangles it over my exposed abdomen. Its cold tail tickles my skin.

I struggle but can barely move. My heart pounds furiously.

"What are you doing!"

Twil presses the snake's head against my stomach. It opens its mouth and digs thin fangs into my flesh.

I moan in protest but can do nothing else. Twil delicately removes the fangs from my skin, and then drops the snake back into the bag, cinching it shut with some twine.

"Why? Why did you do that? I'll die!"

"The venom won't kill you. You'll just be paralyzed for a while." She begins to unite my hands. "Your muscles are locked up. All tense. The venom will loosen them and knock you out."

I feel the poison tingle as it creeps through my capillaries. What's left of my pain evaporates. So does my vision. Everything blurs and I can hardly see.

Twil uses a cigarette lighter to singe the tip of a small twig. It gives off fragrant smoke. Incense that smells like lavender. As the smoke wafts through the tent, she mumbles to herself. Her words are repetitious. Unintelligible. Some kind of eerie, tribal chant.

I try to move my limbs, but they won't listen to my tired brain. They're dead weight now. Twil continues her mantra in monotone, putting her hood back on, and using the sweet smoke to wash her face. I think of escape, but my eyelids are heavier than mountains.

Within moments, I'm asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all of the support guys. I hope I can live up to your expectations

**Chapter 3**

Beware the Bear

The following morning my pain is nearly gone. My body's still sore, but I can move again. I can even walk, albeit it slowly, and with a painful limp.

Twil seems almost pleasant today. Once I've tried out my legs, she provides me with breakfast. Banana yucca and a chunk of mole rat. The rat meat tastes terrible, but I crave protein. I chew on it for what seems like hours, casually, like its salty bubble gum.

Twil doesn't eat. She pulls a small caliber pistol out of her robe and sets it down on her lap. She wants me to know she's armed.

I think on this. Twil's forehead comes up to the center of my chest. I outweigh her by at least sixty pounds. If I tried, I could subdue her, easily. The legion teaches you how to disarm and incapacitate your enemy with a single, unarmed strike. I picture this in my head for a split-second, but only in passing. I haven't yet decided if she means me any harm.

Twil looks too healthy to have spent her whole life drifting through the wasteland, alone. My first guess is that she's from a local settlement or tribe. I'm curious which one, as that might tell me where we are.

"Are you feeling better?"

"A lot. Thanks. I thought you were going to kill me with that snake. I hate snakes. Almost died from one. Thanks for taking me off the cross and for feeding me. I'm more than grateful."

"Are you done eating?" Twil eyes the scraps I've left behind. She sniffs again. The gurgle is endlessly irritating. Her nose always seems to be running, and it doesn't look like she has a cold. Maybe its allergies. I watch, disgusted, as she wipes her wet nose off on her robe.

"Yeah."

Twil motions for me to stand. "Good. Turn around and give me your hands."

"Why?"

"I'm going to tie them together. We're moving camp."

"That isn't necessary. I'm really tired and sore. I couldn't hurt you, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. You have that gun, anyway. I won't heal right if you tie my hands up."

"Turn around and give me your hands." Twil repeats in monotone.

"That will slow us down. I owe my life to you. I wouldn't hurt you."

"You are legion." Twil scoffs. "I know the legion. They enslave and pillage. Rape and kill. Even though they crucified you, you are still one of them. A brutal, mindless savage. Give me your hands. Now!"

This is a game I cannot win. I decide to let her bind my hands, and she wraps my wrists with twine. The knot is tight enough to hurt, but loose enough for me to have a chance of slipping free. I duck down and follow her out of the tent, squinting at the sudden daylight.

While I squat above the sun-baked scrub, Twil dismantles the tent. It's hard work for one person, and the tent poles are taller than she is. I watch her struggle to pull them out of the dirt. The wrinkles of frustration that crease her forehead make me smile.

"If my hands weren't tied, I could help with that."

"I don't need help." Twil spits back. She finishes dismantling the tent, rolls it up, and ties it to her rucksack. The bundle is too much for her, but she carries it anyway . She looks like one of the hunchbacked slave girls who shamble up and down Fortification Hill.

Twil uses her pistol to signal for me to go ahead of her. I walk forward at a very slow pace, trying to go easy on my knees and ankles.

"Where are you taking me? Back to your tribe? Are you a tribal?" I glance back at Twil. "Is there a village near here? I was blindfolded when they marched me to the cross. I have no idea where we are."

Twil emptily motions for me to walk on. She only speaks when I'm not facing her.

"We're three day's walk from Zion. I'm a tribal. We were called the Yampa. I'm not allowed to live in their village. . .anymore."

"Why?"

"Mormons conquered my tribe. They exiled me. I wouldn't convert. Worship their God."

Twil's voice is steeped in bitterness. I try to disarm her with some empathy. A warm smile and a knowing nod. She points at the trail ahead, ordering me to look away - not at her.

I plod forward but continue to talk.

My nerves have always made me chatty. It annoyed my centurion, and everyone else in my contubernia, but to this day, I can't help myself.

"Mormons? Like the Burned Man? As far as I know, he's dead. . . .just a myth now."

"Their leader is named Jethro. He's a vile worm, but calls himself a holy man. When he took over our village he impaled my father on the gates and had my mother burned alive."

"Burned alive?"

Twil nods, gravely. "His punishment for practicing black magic is death by fire."

"Black magic? You're mother was. . ._a witch_? Like magic potions and spells?"

"_She was a shaman_." Twil hisses. "A Priestess of Hecate. Mock her memory again, _savage_, and I will gouge your eyes out!"

My sudden gallows humor evaporates. I stare at Twil to see if she's serious. She narrows her gaze into iron, but I convince myself it's an empty threat.

"My mother was a Follower of the Apocalypse until the legion captured her. She taught me how to read and write, in English and in Latin. Unusual for _a savage _- I know. Caesar teaches that books are for the weak, but he kept a library in Flagstaff. I was allowed to use it so I could help educate recruits on Roman history and values. My father was a tribal – just like you. A Kaibab. I only saw him once before he died in Two-Sun."

Twil shows no interest in my past. Every time I look back at her, she has a blank face. I continue to limp forward, but now my knees are throbbing.

"My father was a Yampa chieftain." Twil finally responds. "By birthright I should have taken his place as leader of my tribe."

The thought of the frail, unkempt woman behind me declaring herself chieftain strikes me as ridiculous. Maybe it's the misogyny that the legion has drilled into me, but Twil neither looks nor acts the part of tribal warlord.

"Your tribe allows women to lead them?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Twil squints.

"Caesar says that a woman's place is in the _domus_. The home. They are physically weak and feebleminded. Ruled by emotion instead of reason. Their role is to give birth and please their husbands, to whom they legally belong. They should be faithful, industrious, quiet, and obedient - _honestas, industria, quietus, et pareo_. They do not lead. They follow."

I keep my eyes locked on Twil as I speak. I believe almost none of what I've said, but want to see her stew.

Twil is seething somewhere deep inside. I can read it in her eyes. She can't help but clench her fists and her face becomes noticeably flush.

I don't know why I want to anger her. Maybe I feel emasculated by the way she's treated me and want a small taste of revenge. Maybe I'm just curious how she'll respond.

In general, something about making women angry has always fascinated me.

I honestly don't know why.

Twil is able to swallow her rage with a few deep breaths. "Keep walking savage. We're almost there now."

"Where's there?"

Twil provides no answer.

We continue down the trail for fifteen or so minutes. It meanders through a dying forest of naked tree trunks and dry earth. At the end of it is a tangled thicket, guarding a large cave mouth.

Its pitch black inside the cave. I approach its entrance, slowly, while Twil drops her gear, unclipping the knife spear from her rucksack.

The cave is damp. I can hear water dripping. It smells of mold and putrid fungus. Yellowish-green moss carpets the rocks. Something stirs from deep within, and I hear a faint echo.

"Why are we stopping here?"

"There's a yao guai den inside of that cave." Twil mutters. "A big male sleeps there when the sun's out."

I've never seen a live yao guai, but a patrol once dragged a yao guai carcass back to my camp to strip for meat. It was a massive, ugly beast. Six hundred pounds of fur, teeth, and brute muscle.

"Then we should leave. Before it wakes up."

"No." Twil gives me a cruel smile. "I brought you here to kill the yao guai. You will go into the cave, kill it, and bring me back its head. If you refuse, I'll shoot you. Right now."

I blink. My heart begins to beat a little bit faster.

"You're joking? Look at me." I stare down at my sunburned sun. "I'm still crippled from the cross. I was almost dead a day ago. I'm still exhausted. I'm in no shape to fight a bear. It'll kill me, easily, unless you're going to give me a fatman."

Twil walks over to me and uses her knife spear to saw through the twine binding my hands. She then tosses the weapon to me and retreats, quickly drawing her pistol. While I fumble with the knife spear, she takes aim at my chest.

"You will do as you are told, or I will shoot you where you stand. I took you here to slay that beast. You have no choice. Kill the yao guai or die now."

I inspect Twil's knife spear. Its crudely made. The shaft is flimsy, brittle wood. The tip is a kitchen knife that has been secured to the shaft with tree sap and twine.

"You expect me to kill a yao guai with this? It will shatter on its hide. I'll need a much better weapon."

"Every Yampa boy must slay a yao guai to become a man. They're cast into the wasteland with no food, no water, no armor, and no other weapon than a spear - just like that one. You've lectured me on what the legion thinks a woman's worth is, and how they should act - now I'm telling you what the Yampa expect from their men. Prove yourself a man to me, or die."

"I'm not Yampa." I shrug. "I don't want to be, either. Why do I have to prove myself to you? Why do you want me to kill a yao guai?"

"As blood-heir of the Yampa chief, I can challenge their new leader for control of the tribe. If I defeat Jethro in a duel, my honor will be restored, and the Yampa will follow me. If I lose; I'll die."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"By tradition, Yampa women aren't allowed to fight in duels. They must choose a champion to fight for them, for their honor. I need a champion to fight Jethro, and I'm only allowed to pick one. If he kills my champion, I'll be killed too. If you're going to be my champion you need to prove to me that you won't lose. Prove you can defeat him."

I look back at the cave for a moment.

"That's why you took me off the cross? To enslave me to fight for you?" I'm gob smacked. "No one from your tribe would do this willingly? You - you had to _kidnap _someone?"

"No. They wouldn't. None of them." Twil says softly. Her voice cracks and her eyes become a bit red. She sniffs back mucous, but this time the sound doesn't bother me.

"Well, I won't do it either." I let go of the spear. It falls to the dirt with a muffled thud. "I don't want to be your champion, or your slave, or whatever you want to call it. And I don't care about your honor. All I want is rest. I won't fight anyone. Not today. I'm too tired."

"Prove yourself to me or die. Savage."

I'm unimpressed. Although Twil has proven herself cold and calculating, I don't think she's capable of murder.

"You'd shoot me in cold blood?" I raise my hands and begin to approach her. "I'm harmless. Unarmed."

"I saved your life." Twil backs away and tightens her grip on the pistol. "That gives me the right to take it. And you are legion. You have no right to be on Yampa land. The punishment for trespassing on my father's hunting ground is death."

Twil's eyes quiver. She looks unsure of herself.

I call her bluff.

"Fine. Kill me." I kneel down in the dirt. "I should have died on the cross. At least I got to live an extra day. And I won't have to be your slave. If you're going to kill me, do it now."

Twil's eyes widen for a moment. She hardens her stare.

"You aren't the first one to refuse this. I killed the others. If you don't pick up that spear and go into the cave I will kill you. Your life means nothing to me."

I stay still, determined not to move.

A gunshot rips through the air. I duck, instinctively. My left ear rings and the temple above it feels wet and warm. I touch it and my fingers soak up a streak of blood.

My head's been grazed by a bullet. I can't believe it.

"Are you crazy! Are you [censored] crazy!" I scream, hysterically. "You just pulled me off a cross a day ago! You think I have the strength to fight a yao guai? With a spear! And you probably just woke it up with that [censored] gunshot!"

"This has nothing to do with strength. The yao gaui will always be stronger than you. Its about skill. Cunning." Twil says calmly. She points her gun at the cave mouth. "Go into the cave. Next time I won't miss, and I won't warn you again. Go inside! **NOW**!"

I have no choice. I clutch my head for a moment and then pick up the spear. The cave looms in front of me, and with bated breath, I enter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 4**

The Cave

The cave is dark. Cold. Everything is either grey or a strange shade of fluorescent green. Glowing mushrooms jut out from the rocks here and there, giving off the faintest light. I hold Twil's knife spear out in front of me like an advancing hoplite, ready to impale any creature that charges me on its jagged tip.

The spear will do almost nothing against a yao guai. I know this, but act as if I don't. False confidence will get me farther than resignation to doom. A drop of cold water drips onto my forehead. I cringe at the impact and wipe my brow.

Although the legion trained me to be a warrior, I don't particularly like fighting. I'd rather read a book than wield a sword. Books were my only friend as a boy. Well. . .them and my mother, Ionia. At sunset, when the other boys went to bed, I'd read Ovid by candlelight. New literature wasn't permitted in legion camps, but Caesar allowed a select few of us to read the classics, and I was always the first to volunteer.

This cave reminds me of a section of _The Republic_. Socrates and his theory of Forms. To Socrates, as related via Plato, the world around us is shadows on a cave wall. We, and all we see, are mere reflections of true things. Forms. These truths, or Forms, that cast our world of shadows cannot be seen by mortals like us. They exist somewhere beyond our perception. Somewhere outside of the tangible, physical world.

They are truth. They are perfection. You can only catch brief glimpses of them through the most rigorous logical deductions and debate.

Something about Socrates' quest to prove the existence of Forms always struck me as naive. It's the same as searching the Earth for tangible evidence of God. Looking for something that by its very definition - true perfection - cannot exist in an imperfect world.

These idle, philosophical musings quickly leave me, once I see something take shape, just around a bend in the cave.

My throat constricts. Stomach tightens. The spear shakes wildly in my unsteady hands as I continue my approach.

A giant yao guai lies a few dozen feet in front of me. I can sense it; smell its pungent saliva and damp, musky fur. The beast is massive. It must weigh over a ton. Every fiber of my being wants to flee the cave, but instead, I creep closer towards the beast.

The yao gaui is panting. Long, labored breaths with a slight gurgle. I come closer and the beast lazily turns its head. It looks at me but doesn't otherwise move.

I stare closely at this mountain of fur, slowly closing to within a few feet of it. It barely reacts, whimpering softly, and then resting its head on a giant paw.

The yao guai has been badly injured. Its back leg mangled from a bear trap. Large strips of festering skin dangle over an open wound. An infection must have already spread throughout its body, as its eyes look very weary. The beast seems to be begging me to put it down.

I'm floored by this. Completely shocked. My nemesis has already been mortally wounded. All that needs be done now is a single spear thrust.

The yao gaui stares at me with pitiful eyes as I walk up to it and lower my weapon for the _coup de grâce_.

I'm not well practiced with a spear. I prefer a short sword; a gladius. I anchor the rear end of the spear on my shoulder, lunge forward, and jam the point into the yao guai's blubbery neck.

The beast jerks to its feet with an angry growl. My spear breaks just below the blade, as I knew it would. It doesn't matter though, as the yao guai is done for. It wheezes for a moment, balls up on the cave floor, and quickly bleeds out.

I almost laugh at this, momentarily giddy. I've never considered myself particularly lucky - after all - two days ago I was crucified. But this - _this _seems like more than good luck.

If there is indeed a God, then this must be His doing. No man can survive on luck alone.

Let alone _twice_.

Once in a cave. Once on a cross. . . .

I wonder if Twil knew that the yao guai was already injured. Perhaps she saw it limp into the cave and merely wanted to test my mettle. Perhaps she knew that I wasn't in any real danger.

Perhaps. . .but most likely not.

With the biggest grin I've ever worn, I work to retrieve the knife blade from inside of the beast's neck. Its innards are greasy from fat and slick with hot blood. My hands slip as I blindly fumble for the blade. I find it, but quickly realize that such a tiny knife isn't up to the task of decapitating so large a creature. The blade can barely saw through muscle, let alone bone.

I use the knife to remove the skin and fat around the creature's throat and then smash its vertebra with a jagged stone. It takes me nearly half an hour to separate the head from the body, and once I do, I'm covered in blood, cave grit, and spatters of gore.

After decapitating the yao guai, I use the knife to cut off a few chunks of meat, enough for a hearty meal. Then, weary and filthy, I retrace my steps, shambling back to the cave mouth.

Twil is there to greet me, huddled over a small camp fire. When she sees me emerge, she stands up and draws the pistol from her robe.

I hold up the yao guai's severed head by its ears. Blood dribbles down.

"You - you slew the beast?" Twil stammers. Her eyes tremble. She looks more than surprised. She smiles and then wills it back into a frown. "Impressive. You've done well, legionnaire."

"It put up quite a fight. Nearly killed me." I toss the bear's head at Twil's feet and then point the bloody knife at her. "Don't try to tie me up again. I've proved myself to you, and I won't be your slave any longer. If I choose to follow you, it'll be as a free man, of my own free will."

Twil stares blankly at my knife. "I won't tie you up, but you can't leave. I still need a champion. You'll stay with me and camp here for the night."

I glare at Twil. She stares back at me with something approaching a pout. At first, this enrages me, but then I find it somewhat amusing.

Now that my hands are free, and I can walk again, I'm certain I'll be able to escape from Twil. All I need to do is wait for the right opportunity. Most likely when she's asleep. That, or simply when her back is turned, and I'm a bit too far away. Just need a couple hundred yards of distance from her and I'll be out of range of pistol shot.

Twil takes the yao gaui meat from me and skewers it on some twigs, cooking it over the campfire while I rest.

I watch her with fascination, but my eyelids grow heavy. The smell of roasting yao guai makes me salivate. I decide to delay my escape until after I've eaten my fill.

Once the meat chars, Twil gathers it up and hands me a skewer.

"You made the kill." She clears a spot for her to sit down and passes me the water gourd. "So you eat first."

I nod and take a large bite. The yao guai is tough, but pleasantly sweet. Gamier than brahmin but far superior to mole rat. I savor my morsel. The fresh meat, the crackling fire, and the gourd of cool water all lighten my mood.

For a moment, Twil's transgressions are forgotten.

Twil eats when I finish, nibbling on her skewer like a squirrel. She hides her face from me as she does this. I don't know why, but she seems to loathe being watched while she's eating.

"You were lying about killing other men like me, weren't you?"

This is a guess, but I believe its correct. I say it with false confidence. If Twil had sent anyone else into that cave I should have seen at least a trace of their remains. Her killer instinct is still in doubt.

"Yes." Twil answers softly. "You. . .you're my first. The first man I-"

"The first man you kidnapped?" I interrupt.

"Yes." Twil sniffs backs mucous. My body bristles in revulsion at the sound. "Very few outsiders come here. I can't _kidnap _any of the natives or their tribe would come looking for them. And if I tried to use them as my champion, Jethro would free them, and hang me."

"So then what happens if you take me to Jethro and I refuse to fight?"

"He might let you go free, but he'd probably hang you for being legion. The Mormons hate the legion. They say the legion ordered the White Legs to wipe out their village at New Canaan."

"Who?"

Twil reaches over and takes a sip from the gourd.

"The White Legs are a tribe that raid north of here. The local tribes are the Yampa, the Creek-Kow, the Dead Horses, the White Legs, and the Sorrows. New Canaan is no more, but it was the main village of the Mormons. After the White Legs destroyed New Canaan, the survivors left to join the other tribes."

"So Jethro's a refugee from New Canaan?"

"_A warrior_ from New Canaan." Twil nods. "He and six others came to my father's camp, claiming to come in peace, to teach us 'The Good Word.' They showed my people Old World magic and told them to abandon our gods. When my father and mother refused, he condemned them to die. When I refused, he _defiled _me, and banished me from the tribe."

"What about the rest of your tribe?"

"They are still in awe of Jethro's magic. They are not like me. Most don't speak the Old World tongue. Jethro is a murderer and a liar, but they don't know better. Too ignorant. _Innocent_. They think he's a god."

"A god, eh?" I take another yao guai skewer. My stomach rumbles. I assume it's because I'm eating too fast. "Caesar claims to be a god too. The son of Mars."

"Does the legion believe that?"

"Most do." I shrug. "Like you, I'm different from most of my people. Mainly because of my mother. I told you that she was a Follower of the Apocalypse. Caesar was too. Most children born to slaves are raised by Caesar's priestesses. They don't know their real parents and are only taught lies about the past. But Caesar let my mother keep me. I guess he respected her. Maybe he'd met her before he became Caesar. Since I was one of the only recruits who was literate, he let me read his books. Caesar teaches that all of the legion's tactics and rituals are his own ideas. That Mars - god of war - came to him in a dream and told him how to forge our empire. That's a lie. He's really just copying a Pre-PreWar empire. Rome. The idea of the legion isn't his own."

"What was your mother's name?" Twil glances up at me while untangling a few strands of her scraggly hair. "You talk about her often."

"I guess I do. Her name was Ionia."

"You're named after her?"

"Since she got to keep me, she got to name me. Her name wasn't originally Ionia, it was something PreWar. She took the name Ionia after she was enslaved."

"Why?"

"Io was the name of a nymph who Jupiter lusted after. Jupiter raped Io, but was caught in the act by his wife. To save face, he changed Io into a cow so his wife wouldn't know he'd cheated on her, but, his wife was too clever. She demanded Jupiter give her the cow as a present and then she tortured the cow for the rest of its life."

Twil fidgets in her seat. "That's a sad story. Your god - Jupiter - doesn't behave like a god. He sounds more like a monster."

I yawn, suddenly sleepy, with a touch of vertigo.

"I think the story was supposed to be a metaphor for my mother's life. A cow is a lot like a slave. They're both property. My father was a violent, vengeful man who had already taken many wives before he impregnated my mother. Sounds a lot like Jupiter. . ."

"So Io is really a girl's name?" Twil grins.

"Uh. . .yeah. I guess so."

My dizziness is worse now. I lie down in the dirt by the cave mouth. A cold sweat beads up on my forehead. It feels like I'm going to throw up.

"Twil. . .there - there's something wrong with that meat." I dry heave. "I - I think it made me sick. I feel dizzy. Dizzy and hot."

Twil stands up. She walks over to me and squats.

The sky is spinning now. The first stars are visible and they look like white streaks. I stare up at Twil and wonder why she isn't sick as well.

"I'm sorry." Twil mumbles. "I poisoned your meat. Dark Datura. It will wear off by morning. The dose I gave you will put you to sleep."

"Why? What!"

I reach up to grab Twil but am too unbalanced. I collapse back into the dirt, but continue to flail around, trying to reach her so I can rip out her throat.

"I'm sorry, Io. . . .I'm sorry, but I need a champion. I need you to be my champion - you - slayer of the great yao gaui. I don't trust you not to run away, and you wouldn't let me tie you up, so this - this was the only way."

I want to curse Twil. Throw every insult I've ever heard at her. I have never hated anyone so much in my life.

As the poison soaks in, and my dizziness intensifies, I feel Twil grab my hands and wrap something around my wrists.

I promise myself that I will strangle Twil when the datura wears off. Slit her throat with my knife. Bash her skull in with a rock. I smile as I picture these gruesome deaths and then, slowly, everything goes dark.

Its just wishful thinking. I'm sure that when I awake, I'll be helpless once again.

Drugged or tied up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 5**

The Mad Arab

I wake up late the next morning. My hands aren't bound.

It feels like I've swallowed several handfuls of broken glass. I slowly sit up and then glance down at my chest. A brahmin skin cloak has been draped over me.

Twil is standing by the cave mouth, just a few feet away. Her tent is packed up and tied to the side of her rucksack. Her pistol is still at her side. She looks ready to move out. I notice that her eyes are pink, and her face is a bit swollen.

She's been crying.

I stand up and slip the leather cloak on, over my tattered uniform.

"This woman wants to tell you she's sorry. She spent the night asking Great Mother for guidance on the journey ahead. Great Mother showed her that she has been wrong. This woman has done great wrong. Great Mother showed this woman that you will lose against Jethro, and she will die, unless it's you who makes the choice to fight him."

Twil's phrasing throws me for a moment. I believe I've heard similar wording once or twice before from tribal legionnaires-in-the-making. Some kind of formal way of speaking that never sounds right once translated.

"_This woman_? How nice of this woman to show up. I was getting very angry at Twil."

Twil's voice cracks as she continues. A tiny chink in her otherwise impassive facade. I relish seeing her the smallest bit vulnerable.

"Jethro has taken everything from this woman. _Everything_. Half her life, spent alone. The only thing that's kept her from dying in the desert is her hatred for that man. . .but Great Mother is right. This woman had no right to treat you as she has. She must be better than Jethro. Her anger has twisted her, but she won't let it consume her. She must let you choose your own path."

I listen to Twil's speech but don't react to it. I won't give her the satisfaction. I stare out at the vast desert that surrounds me. It all looks the same. Bleak, scrubby hills rolling on and on, into a backdrop of craggy, red mountains.

"I'm free to go?"

Twil nods with a gurgley sniff.

"Good. Now give me your gun. You're never pointing it at me again."

Twil shakes her head. She sniffs and then hardens her face and her body posture. Her little confession is over. She drops her formalisms.

"There's a knife in your robe. It's the only weapon I have to give you. You're free, as Great Mother commanded, but remember - I saved your life. You're honor-bound to fight for me. But you have to decide if you're a man of honor or a man of no honor. That's your choice, Io."

Honor?

I chuckle. "You still think I'd-? Whatever. Never mind."

A gust of cool wind blows against my cheeks. The sky to the north looks ominously grey. Below it, I see a dust devil swirling down from the hills. A geko's shriek pierces the air, and in its aftermath, everything falls silent.

I feel oppressed by my new-found freedom. Ever since I was released from the cross I've lived moment to moment, without any thought as to what I'd do next.

I have no goal or direction. The vast emptiness is suffocating.

"Where am I?"

"Three days walk from Zion."

"You told me that already; I don't know what it means. Is there a town nearby? A settled place? Somewhere where people still speak English?"

"My tribe's village is the only village near here." Twil takes a few steps towards me and then points north, at the grey sky. "That way is the land of the White Legs. They do not live in towns or speak the Old World tongue. They are nomads and hostile to all outsiders." She points east. "That way are the Crak-kow and Dead Horses. They too have their own tongue, and they live in caves, not in towns." She points west. "That way are the Sorrows and the canyons of Zion. Their land is surrounded by cliffs. Without a guide, its impassible." She points south. "Back that way is your tribe. Their border is marked by crosses like the one I found you on; if you wish to return to them."

My stomach contracts. An after effect of the poison. I shudder and the feeling dissipates.

In my twenty two years, I've become accustomed to a certain degree of civilization. Maybe even refinement. Most of my life has been spent sleeping indoors, on a warm cot, not sleeping outside, in a lean-to exposed to the elements.

The idea of trying to communicate with, let alone live with such savage tribals is not the least bit appealing. I'd rather try to start a new life living among my civilized, former enemy. The NCR.

"What about the NCR? Is there a Ranger base near here?"

"En-see-are?" Twil scrunches her face. She obviously hasn't had any contact with them. "My father said the En-see-are tribe lives far west - past Zion - where the sun sleeps below the ocean."

It appears I'm in the middle of nowhere. Or Twil just wants me to think I'm in the middle of nowhere. Then I might agree to go to her old tribe's camp.

This is just a trap. Another trick of hers. Always scheming. Always lying.

God I hate her.

"So you're saying that there are no settlements anywhere near here? Only your old village and savages like you?"

Twil clenches her jaw. Her face doesn't look puffy anymore. Her demeanor is back to its normal, brooding equilibrium.

"If my people are savage, then yes, savages are the only people who live here. These are savage lands - they create savage people."

The dust devil has drawn closer to us. Now I can see that the swirling cloud of dirt is actually being kicked up by a small band of travelers and two pack brahim. They are walking towards us, but are still far away.

As they continue their slow approach, I hear the distinctive clank of a cowbell.

"Do you know who they are, to the north? Are they White Legs?"

"They're just a caravan." Twil mutters. "Ali's caravan – he always has bells. Few other outsiders trade with us. The Crak-kow call him _'Loco de Moor'_– the Mad Arab."

The word "Moor" is vaguely familiar to me. I can't place it, but I know I've read it, somewhere.

I conclude that whoever Ali is, he'll be infinitely better than my present company.

I begin to walk towards his slow-moving caravan. There's no gear for me to gather up; Twil has seen to that. All I have is what's on me; the brahmin skin robe, Twil's knife, and my old uniform.

Twil follows me, about ten steps back. I glare at her over my shoulder, and consider telling her to piss off, but that would mean re-acknowledging her presence. Better to pretend she doesn't exist. I grin as I recall my fantasy of beating her to death with a rock, but her teary-eyed confession has quenched my thirst for vengence.

For the moment. . .

The caravan ahead has four members. Two men are positioned twenty paces in front of the pack brahmin. They look like a father and son team. A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a wiry beard, and a gangly, olive-skinned teenager.

They keep a close eye on me as I come up to them. I raise my hands to show they're not in danger.

"Hello." I smile at the older man. He gives me a nod of acknowledgement and continues walking.

Behind him and the boy, is a squat man wearing a white robe. He looks like a monk - or at least how I've always pictured a monk – I've read about them, but have never seen one. A curved sword is tucked into his belt. I recognize the weapon as a scimitar from my Herodotus.

Behind the man with the sword, bringing up the rear of the caravan, is what at first looks like an old woman.

Something about her is highly unusual. She instantly grabs my attention. She's tall and muscular; dressed in jungle-green combat armor. Her hair is grey, with a few streaks of natural brown. Its braided and the braids wrap around one another, forming a short, tight pony tail.

This isn't that odd, though I've never seen such a muscular old woman. It's her face that truly captivates me. She has a glass eye. I've seen a glass eye on a legionnaire before, but it was painted to look like a real eye, and snugly popped into his empty eye socket. This woman's glass eye is uniformly sky blue. It has no pupil or iris. Its larger than her other eye, filling up all the space between her cheek and her eyebrow. On that side, she has no eyelids.

As I become lost in her translucent blue orb, the short man with the scimitar cuts in front of her and waddles up to me.

"Hello! _Salam alaikum_ my friend. _Salam alaikum_! Greetings. May Allah's grace shine upon you. My name is Farook Abdul-Alwahani bin Ali, but you can just call me, Ali. Okay, stranger? Ali."

"Sure." I give Ali a firm handshake. He returns my warmth with an eager nod. "My name is Io."

"_Salam alaikum_, Io. I see that you know Twil?" Ali points past me, at Twil, who's still a few dozen feet back. "Such a beautiful girl - my _malak_- my angel."

Ali scurries over to Twil and quickly wraps her up in a tight bear hug. The affection makes her noticeably uncomfortable, but she returns it anyway, kissing his cheek.

I scowl at the two of them.

"Look at the woman you've blossomed into." Ali croons. "You used to be such a carefree girl. Now you're always so serious. . . but still as pretty as ever."

Twil blushes. She glances over at me and then quickly looks away, hiding her embarrassment.

Ali turns back to me. His face is now glowing like a proud father's.

"How do you know Twil, my friend? A friend of my _malak_is a friend to me as well. In fact, I'll give you a ten percent discount on anything you'd like to buy from my caravan."

"Twil kidnapped me." I say with a smile.

"Ah. . .I - I see." Ali's rubs his chin, suddenly uneasy.

"I'd buy something from you, but I don't have any caps. I was hoping you could tell me where the nearest settlement is. I'm lost and need a town to stay in. Could I find a soft bed and a hot meal somewhere around here?"

"I'll buy him a weapon, Ali." Twil interjects. She stares straight into my eyes. Her offer makes my blood boil. "I will buy you a weapon. I owe it to you."

I hate to accept this, but see no point in declining. No matter where I go or what I do, I'll need a weapon to defend myself, and the kitchen knife Twil gave me is woefully inadequate.

"_Fine_. . ."

Ali claps his hands together in excitement. "Come then. Take a look at my caravan, friend. My wares come from all across the wasteland. Some can be found nowhere else. Come. See."

Ali guides me over to his pack brahmin. He has two of the beasts. Each has several bundles secured to its side. He removes these; talking to Twil while unraveling them.

"How have you been my _malak_? Its been at least a year since I last saw you." He crows with endless enthusiasm. "You're face. You look so sad. . .what troubles you, angel?"

I tune out the rest of their conversation. It's bad enough that Twil's followed me this far. Now she has be the caravaner's daughter, or _malak_, or whatever.

As I wait for Ali to show me what he has for sale, my eyes wander back to the strange, grey-haired woman.

She's standing behind Ali and Twil, staring down the rocky trail that leads back to the cave with the dead yao guai. I'm still captivated by her artificial eye. She turns towards me and catches me ogling her.

"Yeah?" She cocks her head. Her voice is very deep, but still soft enough to sound feminine. Her natural eye is also blue, and looks just as vacuous as the glass one.

"Sorry." I smile, guiltily. "It's just-"

"_My eye_?" She doesn't let me finish.

". . .Yeah."

"Yup." She nods once, as if that's a sufficient explanation.

"Here friend." Ali puts his hand on my shoulder and eases me back towards his brahim. I find him to be a pushy salesman, but his good nature makes it tolerable.

Ali has laid three leather mats on the scrub. On top of them is an impressive spread of weaponry, and a few random combustibles. There's a .45 pistol, a 10mm pistol, a hunting rifle, two 9mm submachine guns, a laser rifle, three grenades, a grenade launcher, a machete, four water bottles, two dried squirrels, a box of matches, and a scimitar.

"Some nice guns here." I pick up the .45 and pull the slide back.

"The finest available my friend. Hand picked from across the wastes and the heart of the NCR."

"About the NCR. . ." I put the pistol down. "Is there a town nearby? Somewhere where I could rent a bed and maybe a woman?"

"Nearby? No. But Ogden's rising from the ashes. There are many settlers there now. I just came from Ogden. Its two day's walk - northeast. Otherwise, they're just tribals from here to the Mojave." Ali nods to himself. "The legion's border is just south of here though. I trade with them too. I'm headed to the border, if you'd like to join me."

My heart sinks. "No thanks."

"Io _is _legion." Twil weasels her way between the two of us and picks up the machete.

"Then true to Caesar, my friend." Ali bangs his fist against his chest, in a mock Roman salute, before I can get a word in. "I deal with men from all camps fairly; for we are all Allah's children."

"You say Ogden is a two days walk from here?"

"Yes. Just up the trail." Ali points north. The sky in that direction is even darker now, and I can hear deep rumbles of thunder. "Hmm. . .Looks like a storm is coming. Sandstorm most likely. Very dangerous. I wouldn't try to walk through it."

I stare at the approaching storm while Ali begins to pack up his inventory.

This is just perfect. I have no fire or shelter.

"Kitarshna!" Ali barks at the one-eyed woman. "Find somewhere for us to make camp. A storm is coming!"

"There's a cave in that hill to the south." Twil volunteers. "Io and I camped there last night. It could shield us from the storm."

_Us?_

I stare daggers at Twil, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Very good! Let's go!" Ali whistles and both brahim perk up their ears. He takes them by the reigns and begins to follow Twil towards the cave. He glances back at me. "Coming friend? We can do the sale once we're in shelter."

I don't want to join Ali and Twil in the cave. I'd actually like to put as much distance between me and Twil as possible. But, with a storm bearing down, and no real sense of direction, that seems suicidal.

"Okay. . ."

Ali nods and gestures for me to walk closer to him. Twil can sense my agitation, and keeps her distance. She's lucky that Ali is around. If we were alone, now's the exact point when I'd bash her skull in.

"Who are your mercs?" I try to get my mind off of Twil.

"Thomas, Jonathan, and Kat - Kitarshna. I'd guess that Kat is the one who's got you interested."

I nod, discretely sizing up the grey-haired woman. I try to estimate her age. By her wrinkled skin, I'd guess sixty, but she looks too strong - too built - to be that old. Much too muscular.

"A lioness, she is. Thomas says she never sleeps. Always has _one eye _open." Ali giggles at the allusion. "I found her far to the north; north of old Seattle. She said she wanted to go to New Vegas. I was headed south, so I offered to take her on as a guard. She doesn't talk much, but doesn't need to. She has quite an aura."

I lean into Ali's ear, whispering. "What's with her eye?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"

If she were any other woman, I probably would, but her _aura _is a bit too unapproachable.

Ali and his mercs quickly shoo the two pack animals into the cave. Ali then unpacks his gear and I pick out the .45 pistol as my choice of weapon. Twil and Ali talk about an acceptable price, but I don't listen.

The price doesn't concern me since I won't be paying.

After a few minutes, Twil walks up to me with the .45 and a machete.

"These are for you." She hands me both weapons.

I pocket the .45 and then take a practice swing with the machete. Its well balanced, with a comfortable leather grip. It reminds me of my gladius.

"Why'd you buy this? I didn't pick this out."

"Every Yampa man carries a knife-spear. Doesn't every legionnaire carry a sword?" Twil blinks. "A sign of your tribe and your manhood."

I feed the machete through a loop on my robe. "You do realize I'm not going to fight Jethro? I'd sooner kill myself."

Twil nods. She looks miserable. I notice that she's sold half of her things for the two weapons. This almost makes me feel sad, but I push those thoughts aside, and recall that she poisoned me just a few hours earlier.

"Almost time for afternoon prayers." Ali booms. He's lying a brahmin skin down on the cave floor. The wind has already begun to pick up outside, and the sky above the cave is noticeably darker. "Are you a religious man, Io? Do you pray?"

"No."

"Do you believe in God?"

"I don't know. Caesar teaches that there are many gods. I don't think that's true, but I can't say for sure. But no, I don't believe in those kinds of things. I've never prayed to them, anyway."

"Well, if your soul ever aches, take comfort in the fact that you needn't believe in Allah for Him to exist. Allah is still there. And Allah loves you. Allah will always love you. Allah loves every man regardless of their faith or their sins. And Allah is always willing to accept those who turn to Him."

"If Allah loves everyone, then why did he allow the Great War? Why did he let us salt the Earth like this?"

"Allow?" Ali chuckles. "My friend, Allah cannot control our actions. Men butcher one another as men always have. Allah gives men the eyes to see what is right and what is wrong, but He cannot make the choice for them. Its up to us how we treat one another."

"Then why pray, if Allah can't change anything?"

"Allah commands us to pray five times a day. Through prayer, you learn to better see Allah. You learn to feel Allah's love and take comfort in it. You learn how to ask Allah for guidance, and how to interpret His answers. Allah is there, my friend, and anyone can find Him. Even if you do not care to look, know that He is still there. He is everywhere, Io."

With that, Ali kneels down on his mat and bows his head. I move away, mindlessly walking towards the grey-haired woman, Kat. She's staring out at the brewing storm with her one real eye. I consider asking her about the other one.

I don't know why I find it so intriguing.

"_Allah hu Akbar - Allah hu Akbar_," Ali chants in a pleasant, soothing melody. "_Ash-had al-la ilaha illa llah. Ash-hadu anna Muħammadan rasulullah_."

"Do you know what he's saying?" I ask Kat this while her back is to me. She turns around slowly, studying me with an absolutely blank expression.

"God is great. I bear witness that there is no God except the one God. I bear witness that Muhammad is God's messenger." She drones in monotone.

"Did Ali teach you his language? What is it, anyway?"

Kat shakes her head. "Arabic."

"Well. . .as my people say, _'fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt_.'" I give her a smug smile. "That means people believe in what they want to believe. Behold the power of self delusion."

Kat is unimpressed. Her blank stare is unnerving.

"_Omnia dicta fortiora si dicta Latina_*" She mutters.

For a second I'm floored, but then I laugh at Kat's little quip. There are probably only a handful of people outside of the legion who understand Caesar's language.

I have no idea how Kat came to be one of them.

"Io?" Twil taps me on the shoulder.

I glare at her, fighting back a strong urge to smack her.

"What?"

"You're going to Ogden?"

"Maybe." I shrug. "What do you care? I told you, I'm **NOT **fighting Jethro."

"I will guide you there. The road to Ogden is dangerous. Many White Legs patrol it. I know these trails and can get you there safely."

"You think I'd trust you after what you've done to me?" I scoff.

Twil kneels down on the cave floor in front of me. She bows her head.

Her overt display of submission makes me uncomfortable.

"I apologized, Io. I bought you a weapon. I offered you my knowledge. I have nothing else to give and no other way to show I'm sorry. Forgive me for wronging you."

I am acutely aware that Ali is now looking over at me and Twil, wondering what's going on between the two of us. I don't think it would be very wise to offend him.

Twil's his angel. I better treat her well, at least while he's watching. . .

"_Get up_." I seethe to Twil, quietly.

She slowly rises to her feet. "Will you let me guide you, Io?"

"Why? What do you get out of this? This is another trick. You're just going to 'guide' me to Jethro's camp."

"I swear to Great Mother, I will not." Twil makes a strange gesture with her hands. I assume its some kind of shamanic holy sign. "I only want to see you off, safely. I saved your life. If you die on the road north, it will have been for nothing."

"I don't trust you. Not for a second."

"Then don't." Twil sniffs. The same annoying sniff as always. "But will you let me guide you? I promise not to mislead you."

I'm tempted to say no immediately, but then think it'll be more fun to watch her stew for a little while. Without giving her an answer, I glance over at Kat, and then outside. The day has turned black and dark sands swirl around the cave mouth with the roar of a cyclone.

*****"_Everything sounds impressive when said in Latin._"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: I'm now on Twitter as SentientSurfer. Thanks for all of the comments! Check out my e-book. :D

**Chapter 6**

The 80s

The sandstorm departed as suddenly as it had arrived. Ali and his caravan left in its wake, heading south, toward legion lands. Before Ali set off, he gave me a small sheet of paper with type on it that looked like it had been made by a homemade press. The paper was old; its surface dry and yellowed. On it, printed in both English, and a flowery, swirly script that I assumed to be Arabic, was written the following:

_The Five Pillars of Islam_

_Shahada: There is no God but the one God, Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet._

_Salat: Pray to Allah five times daily, head bowed, facing East._

_Sawm: Fast to repent for your sins_

_Zakāt: Give alms and be charitable toward all of Allah's children_

_Hajj: Before you die, make a pilgrimage as far East as your legs will carry you. Once there, give thanks to Allah for all that He has provided._

"Follows any or all of these five rules, my friend," Ali had said, "and you will be a true Muslim in Allah's eyes. . .and a just man in all others."

Ali's words rang hollow to my tired ears.

Just another proselytizer.

(***)

Ali and his caravan begin to walk off. I study the strip of paper for one last time. Once they're out of earshot, I crinkle the paper up into a ball, and let it fall to the earthen cave floor. It dances across the rocks from the restless wind, seemingly animated by it.

Ali and his mercs disappear into the lingering fog of dust that now blankets the south. I think back on the strange, one-eyed woman. Kat. For whatever reason, I have a very strong feeling that we'll meet again.

Somewhere.

For the rest of the afternoon, I walk due north, keeping my bearings by tracking the sun as it slowly completes an arc across the cloudless sky. Twil shadows me, several hundred feet back, like a stalking yao guai.

I never answered Twil's humble request to be my guide. I thought that simply walking off, without a word, would be enough of an answer, but from the moment I set out, she followed.

I could kill Twil now, on this empty, lifeless, desert trail. It's an excellent opportunity. There's no one around and I have two good weapons. In a bit of poetic justice, it was Twil herself whom had bought them for me.

It would be a quick death, and an easy one too. Just a single shot to the head or a well placed thrust of my machete.

I _would _have killed Twil; had it been just one day earlier.

But now. . .now I know Twil too well. Much too well.

It's easy to kill your enemy when you don't know who they are. It's slightly more difficult up close, but I'd fought face-to-face many times, and had used my gladius to slice several profligates' throats wide open. Their faces faded quickly from memory - some faster than others - but soon they all melded together into a blur. They had no names to go with them, no personality beneath them, and no memories or emotional associations, other than the adrenaline and fear I had felt in the heat of battle.

Twil was different. She wasn't some unknown, unnamed face. _She was Twil_. She was a shrewd, conniving tribal. A wanderer. An outcast. She was neither kind, nor truly cruel. She had been a happy, pretty girl, and was now a miserable shrew whom had had everything taken from her. She was a broken woman, but she bore her disgrace with more honor than most men could ever muster.

I hated Twil for how she'd treated me, but knew I could never kill her.

Hate isn't love, yet oddly, they seem to share a lot in common. They are both strong emotions, directed at a single, _special _person. To truly love or hate someone, you have to know them well. You have to know them deeply. You have to know where they came from and what drives them. Somehow, you have to be close to them.

When you truly love or truly hate someone, you can't get your mind off them.

Whenever you close your eyes, you see them, smiling at you, and your blood flows hot with passion or simmers to an angry boil.

So, although I hate Twil, I cannot kill her. Although I might savor the sight of her blood spilled over this dry dust for a moment or two, her gloomy ghost would haunt my dreams. I'd see her crooked mouth, those two squirrelish eyes, and hear her constant, gurgling sniffs forever.

(***)

Eventually, the desert trail I've been following north throughout the day, forks off in two different directions. Both go north, but one fork curves slightly east, and the other west.

I have no idea which path leads to Ogden.

I pause at the fork, taking in the bleak view of dead trees and wind-swept scrub. The wind howls, as it has for my whole walk. Its raspy, dry voice sounds like death, always taunting me with inevitability.

Twil walks ahead of me, for the very first time. She stands at the base of the fork, and points to the path to the right.

She says four words in monotone.

"Ogden is that way."

I have no reason to trust Twil, but one way looks just as good as the other. I walk down the path Twil directed me to.

The trail forks off several more times before twilight, and each time I follow Twil's terse directions.

(***)

Now, the sky is dark. The air is much colder. Its strange how quickly heat leaves the desert. A few stars twinkle above, but the skeletons of petrified trees block out most of them.

I walk forward, guided by moonlight. Its pale shadow provides just enough light for me to see my immediate surroundings.

Twil is only a few feet back now. Her directions had become indispensible once the dirt path turned into shapeless forest. I had wanted to get a fire going and setup camp when the sun began to set, but trusted Twil when she advised me that that would be sure to attract White Leg attention.

Without a fire's warmth, it's too cold for me to stop walking. I continue on, rubbing my arms to keep my skin from freezing.

Twil is like an owl perched on my shoulder. As it grows darker, she closes to just a few inches behind me, breathing down my neck. All I can hear is the sound of her runny nose and the creaking branches that surround me.

Slowly, off in the distance, between the ghostly branches, several points of light take shape. They are bright white, unnaturally round, and seem to be oscillating. I stop in my tracks, kneel down in the dirt, and wave for Twil to mimic my actions.

"Are those lights up ahead Ogden? Or is it White Legs? A raiding party?"

Twil furrows her brow and tightens her hood around her flush cheeks. She can see the lights too. She creeps forward, and peeks around a tree trunk to get a better look at them.

"Not White Legs." She whispers back. "White Legs use torches. Those lights are different. Not fire."

My breath turns into white fog as I respond. The cold seems all consuming.

"Could it be Ogden?"

"I. . ." Twil's voice quivers in hesitation. "I don't think so. Ogden should still be another day's walk. But there are no other villages out here. . ."

The lights grow closer. Brighter. Deep, booming voices accompany them, along with a strange, groaning rumble that makes the trees around me vibrate. I feel the urge to flee, but have no sense of direction.

I am blind in a sea of blackness.

"If they aren't White Legs, and that's not Ogden, what is it? Who are they?"

Twil looks back at me with a blank stare. She must not know. Her crooked mouth is just the tiniest bit twisted. I can sense that she's afraid. It's the first time I've ever seen her afraid, and it makes me _very_nervous.

"This way." I gesture for Twil to follow me.

The voices, lights, and the dull rumble draw even closer.

Twil and I walk - _or rather jog_- parallel to the lights, hoping to slip past them, unnoticed. They seem to go on forever in a solid line in either direction. The rumbling continues, growing louder by the second. I can feel it in my chest. Its drone is constant.

"Let's hide." Twil chirps. She hunkers down behind a fallen tree. I join her in the little hiding spot as the lights come to within a few feet of us.

The voices I'd heard earlier are somewhat intelligible now. I'm shocked that they're speaking English, not some rudimentary tribal gibberish. I can't understand more than a few words here and there; the rest is drowned out by the loud, continuous rumble.

I poke my head over the log, as does Twil, and both of us take a quick second to gaze out at the lights and the approaching strangers.

A few dozen feet ahead is a column of men and women dressed like raiders. They're all wearing steel helmets and ragtag, metal-studded, leather armor. They are not armed like tribals. Most are carrying shotguns or assault rifles.

The lights that Twil and I had seen from the distance are mounted to the front of small, prewar vehicles. The raiders seem to be _riding _those vehicles, as I'd seen men ride horses in Medieval drawings. Those machines are what have been making the loud, rumbling noise. I had seen vehicles like them before - rusted hulks lying by roadsides and crumbling garages back in more settled places like Arizona.

A very old slave in Flagstaff had called them. . . .motorcycles.

"The 80s." Twil whispers into my ear. Her tone is frantic. "Those must be the 80s."

I put my hand on her shoulder and pull her down, so we're both hidden behind the log.

"Who are the 80s?"

"Another tribe. Enemies of the White Legs. I've never seen them this far south - in White Leg lands. This is strange. . .They are dangerous."

"What are those machines they have with them?"

"Steel horses." Twil says with a gurgly sniff. She wipes her nose with a trembling hand. "They call them 'hogs.' They can ride them. No other tribe can move across the desert as quickly as the 80s. All fear them."

The motorcycles' rumbling echoes in my chest. My heart is pounding.

The 80s 'hogs' are almost on top of us now. I have no doubt that we'll soon be spotted. The headlights are too bright, and the 80s are packed too tightly together for us to go unnoticed. If we try to run, they're sure to ride us down, and butcher us like animals.

I glance over at Twil. She is huddled down in the dirt. I can tell that she's scared out of her wits, but she keeps a blank face. She tries so hard to never show fear. I respect that aspect of her. No matter how scared, or angry, or happy she is, she's almost always stone-faced.

I tend to openly display my emotions.

As Twil tries to shimmy under the log, I try to come up with a plan to avoid my own slaughter. There is only one that comes to mind, and it is not a very safe idea, but it's the only idea I have at the moment.

Without saying a word to Twil, I quickly shake off my brahmin skin robe so I am wearing only my tattered legionary uniform. I then pull out my machete, and to Twil's horror, I stand up, on top of the log, in full view of the approaching column of 80s.

Headlights immediately shine in my face, followed by excited, frantic chatter.

I don't flinch. I don't blink though the light burns my eyes. I cannot show the slightest bit of fear or I'm as good as dead.

The only thing that will keep me alive is false confidence.

One of the 80s rides ahead of the others, driving his motorcycle up to within a few feet of me. He's a burly man. His leather attire has been augmented with several segments of scavenged NCR armor.

"Who the fuck are you?" He roars.

This is it. This is my moment.

"I am explorer Andronicus Io of Caesar's XXIIV Legion." I bang my fist against my chest plate in the strongest, sternest legionary salute I've ever given.

The man on the motorcycle stares at me vacantly. Several other men ride up next to him. One of them is dressed in something approaching a proper uniform. Over his leather armor is a steel breast plate. The breast plate is red, white, and blue, and has been cut into a curious design; almost heart shaped. There is a letter and two numbers printed on the center of it.

I-80

It's a highway sign, I realize.

The man in the highway sign waves for the others to hold their position. He then climbs off of his motorcycle and anchors it to the ground with a long metal peg, so it doesn't fall over. I notice he's wearing metal boots with old fashion stirrups. He has a wiry black beard, a fat face, and dark eyes. His shoulders have several patches sewn onto them, red and gold bars that seem intended to mimic the rank stripes of NCR uniforms.

He pulls a shotgun off his motorcycle and walks up to me without hesitation.

"You are legion?" He sniffs, pumping the shotgun.

"I am explorer Andronicus Io of Caesar's XXIIV Legion." I repeat coolly.

"What are you doing in Utah?"

"I'm a scout. The XXIIV Legion is camped nearby." I lie. I reach down, grab a fist full of Twil's hair, and pull her up by it. She lets out a soft whimper and rises to her feet, visibly stunned. Shaking. "I was sent to search for a virgin girl to satisfy the appetite of my centurion."

The raider gives Twil an icy glare and then studies me as if I were an intricate painting.

"I'm Drak, leader of the 80s Bonneville Chapter." He booms. Several other 80s ride up alongside him, menacingly. "Why have the legion come to Utah?"

"To sack Ogden." Ogden is the only city in Utah I'm aware of. "Caesar was told that New Canaanites are taking refuge there and has ordered all of them slaughtered."

Draks nods and mumbles something to one of the other 80s. He then steps even closer to me. He towers over me, almost seven feet tall. I'm forced to look up his hairy nostrils.

"How many days march is the legion from Ogden?"

I squint and consider my answer.

"I cannot divulge our position. That would betray Caesar. I am no traitor. But I have already told you that the legion is camped near here. You must know the distance to Ogden."

"We're _also_ going to Ogden." Drak smiles. "The Burned Man lured the White Legs into a trap in Zion Canyon. He killed their chieftain, Salt-Upon-Wounds, and scattered the rest of the tribe. We have slaughtered most of the survivors. Now, the road to Ogden is open and unguarded. While the new Canaanites have rebuilt much of the city, it remains vulnerable. We too have come to raid it, and take from it, everything worth taking. That is, unless the legion beats us to it. The 80s are not enemies of the legion, and have no reason to make war with them, _yet_. I ask you again - scout - how many days march is the legion from Ogden?"

I stare intently at Drak's motorcycle while I try and think of something to say. I'd heard rumors that the NCR have motorcycles too, and other machines called 'cars' that are even bigger. I try to imagine how much ground those machines must allow their riders to cover in mere hours.

"I will not betray Caesar." I repeat. "But the legion marches by foot. We do not have machines such as yours." I point at Drak's motorcycle. "If the 80s ride to Ogden using such machines, I am sure they will reach the city well before the legion catches sight of it."

Drak stares back at his motorcycle with something approaching a look of pride.

"Very true. No one is as fast as us when we're on our hogs." He nods with conviction. "Regardless of how close you are camped now, we'll beat you to Ogden - easily. It's still many miles away, over flat ground. Easy riding. We will reach it before sunrise."

I clutch Twil's left arm in a death grip. "I am sure that you will, Commander Drak of the 80s. Now, if you excuse me, I need to return to my centurion."

Drak cocks his head to the side without saying anything.

The 80 who had been the first to spot me takes a long swig from a flask and then calls over to Drak, bellowing.

"What should we do with them boss? The man's too much trouble to take along. He'll go down easy though. Let's off him and take the woman."

I feel Twil's muscles tense. She radiates anger.

"If you attack me, you attack Caesar." I snap.

Drak's eyes wander back and forth between me and Twil. I'm almost certain that he's going to side with his brethren.

"Scamper back to your centurion, legionnaire." Drak smiles. "Tell him that the 80s bear the legion no ill will, but there will be very little left of Ogden once he gets there. We'll take that slave girl off your hands. If you're in need of another, I suggest you turn south, instead of going where we've come from. We've already raided the lands behind us and taken everything and everyone worthwhile."

The blood rushes out of Twil's arm. I can feel it.

This is my chance to walk off scot-free. I can go back into the woods and wander wherever I'd like.

I'm free, once again.

Yet I'm not.

Twil's fate is dire. The 80s seem to take few slaves. I don't see any with them. I guess they'd slow them down – they can't ride motorcycles. I have no doubt that Twil will be given to all of these hairy men, passed between them like a piece of fresh meat, and once she's used up, she'll no doubt be murdered.

I can't accept this. I don't know why. I want to turn and look into Twil's eyes to try and comfort her, but that would show weakness. This is no time for weakness.

I couldn't kill Twil myself, and I won't let these raiders do it either.

"This slave is not yours to take." I sniff. "The tribes here are foul. I have searched long and hard for a virgin such as this one. She belongs to the legion now. If you try and take her, you steal from Caesar."

I can feel Twil's gaze turn to me. I don't turn to face her. Legionnaires never look their slaves in the eye. Slaves are dogs, rats, animals. Nothing but property.

"Very well scout." Drak says with a shrug. "But take my advice; she doesn't look like a virgin."

With that, Drak mounts his motorcycle and revs the engine. He shoots forward and his motorcycle bounces up and down the hilly terrain with an earsplitting whine. Dozens of others motorcycle follow in his wake, darting by me and Twil, their drivers shouting and laughing as they follow their commander into the darkness.

After several minutes, Twil and I are alone, and the dead forest has once again fallen silent.

"That was very. . ._bold_." Twil mumbles. "I was sure they were going to kill you."

"Confidence can be a powerful weapon." I mutter. "Since there aren't any more White Legs out here, let's get a fire going. I'm freezing and would like to sleep somewhere warm. Get us some firewood."

Twil meekly nods and then begins to gather up twigs. I sit down on a log and watch her idly.

When she's amassed a small bundle of sticks, she piles them together, and lights them with a flint.

I join her by the fire.

"You could have let them take me. They wanted me. They could have killed you for refusing." Twil whispers, staring not at me, but at the fire. "Why did you do that?"

I don't answer.

Twil nods to herself. She is silent for what seems like hours.

"When morning comes, where will you go, Io? Where do you want me to guide you? Do you want me to guide you?"

I stare in the direction Drak and the 80s are headed. I see only darkness.

"I don't know. Obviously not Ogden." I say bitterly. "By tomorrow, they'll be nothing left of Ogden."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Announcements: I've e-published a FREE short story on Smashwords entitled "Diary of a Dead Muse." The link to it is on my profile. It's only 2,000 words. Check it out. Rate it! Review it! Also, The Book of the Nine Ides has a new cover. Take a look!

**Chapter 7**

Broken Legs

The forest began to sprout back to life beyond the barren hills, back where the 80s now roam. Although the trees around me are still leafless, the underbrush here is thick with fresh grass shoots and tender saplings. Brown mushrooms sprout out from the trees and ferns are rising from the ashes.

A large swath of this foliage is spattered with blood; a long, dripping trail of red blobs.

Twil and I instinctively follow it, salivating at the promise of a wounded brahmin or gecko at its end. All we've had to eat for two days were mushrooms.

Instead of a wounded animal, the blood leads us to a girl. She is lying in a clump of tangled weeds, stained dark red with her blood.

I look down and see that both of her legs are broken; shattered to the point where they're unrecognizable.

It takes me a few seconds to confirm that the girl is really a girl. She's filthy; covered head to toe in blood, grit, and dead leaves. Her hair is tangled and matted. Her face and legs had been painted a bleach white that's now splattered with red streaks of blood. Where her shins should be, are two wads of exposed flesh with shards of white bones poking through them.

It looks as if someone has taken a sledgehammer to her legs. The pain must have been unimaginable. Now, her eyes are half closed. Her lips move slowly, mumbling to herself, feverishly, in some unfamiliar language.

I take in the grisly scene in silence for several moments.

"She's a White Leg." Twil says gravely. When she looks over at me, I can sense a glimmer of pain behind her dull, brown eyes. She kneels down next to the maimed girl and examines her legs.

The girl cringes at her touch.

"A _dead _White Leg." I mutter.

I draw my machete and take a practice stroke, cutting through the empty air with a whoosh. It's clear to me that this White Leg girl is in a lot of pain, and with both of her legs shattered, she has no hope of surviving in the wasteland.

In the legion, when a soldier or slave is maimed, their master is expected to give them a quick death. One swift strike to the neck is all it takes. All of their pain ends in an instant, and they die with dignity. Maybe even honor.

There's no evil in ending someone's suffering. How could there be? Even if the sufferer happens to be a young a girl.

Yet still. . .

I approach the girl with my machete drawn, steeling myself to do what must be done. Before I can, Twil notices the blade. The blood drains from her face. She rises to her feet and grabs my arm.

"No!" Twil knocks the blade away. "Put that down! _What are you doing_!"

"Look at her." I point at the pitiful little girl. "We should give her a clean death. Mercy."

"_Mercy_?" Twil hisses. Her body bristles. "Murder isn't mercy."

_"Mata? Mata alya? Mata?"_

The girl opens her eyes. They're glazed over with a mixture of shock, fear, and pain. She's younger than I'd thought at first. Very young. She's tall, but flat and shapeless, like a little girl who hasn't reached puberty.

I can't help but stare at the girl's shattered legs. The mess of blood, meat, and bone is one of the most horrific things I've ever seen, yet for a moment, I cannot look away.

"What did she say?"

"She's asking for her mother." Twil's voice cracks. "She's calling for her mother. . ."

Something about _that_makes the hair on the back of my neck tingle. I sheathe the machete and Twil rummages through her rucksack. She takes a small pouch of leaves out from the bag and begins to chew on them like cud. Once they've been reduced to mush, she smears the leaf-paste onto the girl's wounds.

The girl lets out a soft whimper but otherwise doesn't react. She's looking up at me with empty eyes. Hollow eyes; like those of a dying animal.

My stomach tightens. I feel like I'm falling into her eyes. Dead eyes.

I do not want to look at her any longer.

"That paint on her face and legs - is that why they're called White Legs? Do all of their women paint themselves up like that?"

Twil finishes with the leaf-paste, pulls out a small gourd, and washes the paint away with the last of our water.

"She's not a woman. She's a child. Eleven. Maybe twelve. White Legs are nomads. Anyone old enough to carry a weapon goes out with the raiding parties. She's a warrior. That's her war paint."

"_She's a child_." I say blithely.

Twil scowls and I look away, taking a moment to study our surroundings.

The forest is silent. Unnaturally still. I do not want to stay here. Something about this place is off. Evil.

_"Mata? Mata alya? Mata?" _The child continues to whisper.

I walk away from Twil and the little girl, leaning against a dead tree. The girl's cries are making me nauseous. I need to get away from her.

"Did the White Legs do this?" I trace the blood trail snaking across the ferns. "Or the 80s? They said they rode through here. . ."

Twil cuts through the girl's clothes with a kitchen knife. They're bloody rags now. She peeks between the girl's legs and looks up at me with a frown.

"If she'd run or disobeyed the White Legs, they would have killed her. She's been raped and maimed. Savage as they are, White Legs don't do that. It was the 80s. This is what they would have done to me. . .if you hadn't been there."

_"Mata? Mata alya? Mata?"_

The girl's moaning makes me clench my fists. I consider dragging Twil away from the little girl and ending her agony once and for all.

"If she's calling for her mother, her parents might be nearby. We should go. I doubt that she's out here alone."

"Her parents are dead to her." Twil sniffs. She takes her knife to the bottom of her robe and cuts off several thin strips of brahmin hide. "White Legs that can't walk have no use to the tribe. If they found her like this, they'd kill her, _just like you would_."

"What are you going to do to her?"

"I'm going to try to heal her. . . Just like I healed you." Twil says without hesitation. "That's my duty as a medicine woman. I swore an oath to Great Mother. A medicine woman must help anyone who's injured. Tribe doesn't matter. Legion, Yampa, New Canaanite, or White Leg."

"Are you going to poison her too?" I mutter. "Have a snake bite her? Maybe that would put her to sleep and keep her quiet for a little while."

Twil stands up from beside the broken girl. Her face is twisted in contempt. Her nose gurgles. I can feel her anger boiling.

"I healed you before I poisoned you. And I apologized. The venom was medicine. I would let a rad-snake bite her if I had one, but I let the one that bit you go."

"I was joking."

_"Cam. Cam tu? Awhoool yo?" _

Whatever herbal remedy Twil used on the girl seems to have had some effect. Her face has regained a bit of color. She paws at the ground with grubby hands and tries to sit up.

She shrieks when she looks down at her maimed legs.

I bite my tongue.

Twil gently eases the girl back down.

"Shhhh." Twil presses her finger to her lips. _"Amasa lobe. Dikata. Sa. Shhh." _

The girl squirms for a moment and then goes still. She's not looking at Twil anymore.

Her eyes are locked on me.

I shudder.

"We should go. She can't walk. She won't survive, no matter what kind of leaf-paste or healing powder you give her. We need to keep moving."

Twil glances up at me. I recognize that withering glare. It's the same look she gave me outside of the yao guai cave, just before she fired the shot that nearly took my ear off.

"Where _are _we going?"

"I don't know yet. I haven't decided. But it'll come to me. Let's go."

"You go." Twil turns her attention back to the girl. "I said I'd guide you to Ogden. Now you don't want to go to Ogden. You don't want to go anywhere. You're a wanderer. A wanderer doesn't need a guide. What good is a guide unless you have somewhere you want to get to?"

She's right, but I won't admit it. I have nothing to do. No aim. No destination. No goal.

What is left for me?

"Take me to California. Take me to the NCR."

"No." Twil shakes her head. "I agreed to guide you to Ogden. I don't know how to get to _Galiforna_. I'm going to gather some sticks to make splints for her legs. If you're going to go; then go. If not; help me."

I do neither. Instead, I sit down on an old, gnarled stump and watch Twil dig through the tangles of weeds and underbrush in search of straight twigs.

The little girl is still staring at me. I can't tell if she's really looking at me or past me. Maybe she's intrigued by my uniform. Maybe she can't see me at all. Her empty eyes look like death. Her murmurs cut into my soul.

Twil has gathered up a handful of sticks. She uses the strips she's torn from her robe to lash them around the little girl's legs. The girl screams as her legs are set back in place with the sickening sound of bone grinding on bone.

I grit my teeth and turn away. I hate screams. Girl's screams in particular.

"Do all legionnaires have such a weak stomach?" Twil mutters.

"No.. . .Why do you think the 80s broke her legs?"

"I don't know. Maybe just to be cruel."

"Are you any less cruel? She's still going to die. Her legs won't heal for months, and if they do, they'll heal crooked. The wasteland is no place for cripples. You're prolonging her suffering. She's better off dead than a cripple."

Twil has no retort. She cradles the little girl in her arms. The girl whimpers at first and then snuggles up against her.

"Where are you taking her?"

"Back to my village. White Tree." Twil licks her chapped lips. Her fingers are soaked in the little girl's blood. She rubs them off on her robes and delicately picks up her rucksack.

Twil is petite and her rucksack is heavy. I doubt that she'll be able to carry it and the girl for more than a few miles.

Twil is stubborn though. She'll stumble forward until the little girl dies in her arms. A sad fate, but stupid.

"You said you couldn't go back to your village."

"I can't but maybe she can. When the Mormons came to White Tree, they brought along a healer. They call him _doctor_. Maybe he'll heal her. Maybe he'll give her food and a bed. Maybe he won't, but there's nowhere else for her."

"If Jethro sees you, won't he kill you?"

Twil shrugs. "They still might keep the girl. I'm tired of being an outcast, Io. I'm tired of being alone."

I watch silently as Twil begins to walk off with the maimed girl, plodding through the forest. I feel a strong urge to follow her, although I don't know why. I do so at a distance, the same way Twil had followed me, as I blindly fumbled my way towards Ogden.

Unlike me, Twil never looks back. She talks to the girl in the White Leg's tongue. Sometimes I think I can hear the girl mumble back.

Eventually, Twil stumbles on a tree root and falls to her knees. The little girl wails as her broken legs smack against the hard ground.

The noise makes me cringe.

I walk over to Twil, nudge her aside, and pick up the little girl. The girl's sobbing now, but she goes silent at my touch.

Twil looks like she's about to say something but holds her tongue.

I cradle the girl in my arms as best I can. She's very light. I can feel blood trickling down my arms and dripping down my elbows.

"I'll carry her. You lead the way to White Tree. You'll wait outside of the village so no one sees you, and I'll take her into town."

Twil nods.

It's a day's walk to White Tree. I spend most of it looking down at the little girl. Her eyes are closed, but she's still mumbling to herself.

I ask Twil what she's saying.

_"Please don't hurt me."_

She is still in shock.

The longer I walk, the hotter the girl feels against my skin. Maybe it's a fever. I'm not sure. When I wrap her up in my robe, she sweats bullets, but when I remove it, she shivers.

I didn't want to carry this little girl. I'm still sure she's going to die, yet I carry her anyway.

I didn't want to follow Twill either, yet I did that too.

I suddenly realize why I wanted to leave the girl behind. It's the same reason why I wanted to leave Twil behind. I didn't want to get attached.

Life is so much simpler without any attachments; but it's far too late now.

I've already given the little girl a name befitting of a tribal.

Broken Legs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 8**

The Shepherd and His Flock

White Tree comes into view, several miles up the trail.

The village sits atop a small hill, giving it a good vantage of the surrounding desert. It's enclosed by a six-foot high fence that looks like a midlevel palisade. An imposing wall of sharpened, wooden stakes meant to keep prying eyes out. A jury-rigged guard tower made from logs and scrap metal pokes out above the palisade, along with a few stony rooftops.

Twil tells me that the guard tower and palisade are new. They weren't there when she was banished from the village.

Broken Legs wiggles in my arms. She's never woken up; at least not fully. As I walked with her through the night, she'd cried out a few times, but never opened her eyes. They remain closed now, although I can see them moving under her eyelids.

"You should wait here," I whisper to Twil. "I'll take the girl into town to this doctor. I'll come back here tomorrow and look for you. Keep your eyes out. Stay hidden."

"Okay." Twil fidgets. She seems transfixed by her village's medieval makeover. "Try and count how many men are in White Tree. New Canaanites and Yampa. A lot has changed. Let me know what's happened to my people."

I watch as Twil scurries away, hiding somewhere in the scrub. Broken Legs shivers. I adjust my grip on her and continue forward.

When I'm about two hundred yards from the wooden palisade, a man up in the guard tower waves his arms at me and starts yelling. I can't make out his words. I nod to him and continue to walk towards the wall. Slowly.

Four armed men come up from behind the palisade with their weapons drawn. They're wearing leather body armor and carrying rifles. Three of them are clean-shaven and unremarkable. The fourth one has tattoos all across his face. I assume he is - _or was_- Yampa.

"Stay there," the tattooed merc barks. "No closer."

I'm carrying a little girl, so it's pretty clear I pose no danger. The four mercs whisper to one another for a minute or two and then cautiously wave me over to a gap in the palisade.

I walk through it.

From the inside, White Tree looks like a typical waster settlement. There are two buildings made of stacked stones in the town center, next to a large bonfire. One of those buildings has a large wooden cross mounted above the doorway. Behind that building is the guard tower. All of the other structures that make up the village are tents made of brahmin hide, saplings, and rope. They ring the town in three concentric circles.

Four brahmin and a small group of molerats have been penned up along side the wall. I watch as a little girl reaches over the fence and feeds maize to them.

Most of White Trees' residents seem to be Yampa. I can tell by their tattoos, although the youngest children don't seem to have any. The Yampa decorate their hair with feathers, and wear it loose and long. They all seem to have abandoned their old tribal garb for typical, leather wasteland attire.

There are a few men and women mixed in among the Yampa who look slightly more refined. I figure they must be the New Canaanites. They have modern clothes and hair styles. One of them is wearing glasses. Some have energy weapons.

I stare at the New Canaanite with glasses for a moment as an old Yampa woman pokes her head out of her tent and ogles me.

After taking in the town, I continue towards the bonfire and the two stone buildings. The doctor may be inside one of them. Before I reach them, a pale, languid man ducks out of a nearby tent and approaches me.

The man is wearing a grey robe with a thick book tucked under his arm. His hair and eyes are both jet black and palpably cold. He's young - younger than me. I stop in my step and wait for him to say something.

"I see that you're legion." The man points at the center of my chest. I'm wearing a brahmin skin cloak over my uniform, but it's still visible. "You're a long way from the Mojave."

"I was legion. Not anymore."

I stare at the book tucked under the man's arm. It's three inches thick. All of the pages are yellow.

A Bible?

"Are you a. . .preacher?"

"A bishop - technically - but they're much the same," the man replies. "You're a deserter, I'd guess? No matter. Welcome to White Tree. What is your name, friend?"

"Io."

The bishop comes closer and peers down at Broken Legs, inspecting her injuries.

"And who is this poor girl?"

"My daughter." I say without hesitation. I take a brief look around. "Is there a doctor in this town? If there is, can he take a look at her?"

"Of course." The bishop points back, towards the guard tower. "Ezekiel's tent. It's that way, the last one on the right. Up against the wall. Right behind the church."

"Thanks." I walk off without giving the bishop a second look.

"God be with you." He calls after me.

Ezekiel's tent is older than those surrounding it and slightly more tattered. There's no way to knock on the flap so I rustle it instead and ask if I can enter.

There is a muted response. I take this as a yes and duck into the tent

Inside of the tent are two soiled cots, piles of dirty medical instruments, and various glassware and chems bottles. Standing amongst the mess is a bald old man with a white goatee. His face is gnarled and withered.

"Are you Ezekiel?"

"Yes," the man wipes his head on his sleeve. He's sweating heavily and has terrible body odor. "You are?"

"Io. I need you to take a look at my daughter."

I slowly lower Broken Legs onto an empty cot. Her eyes flick open for a moment and she mumbles something in White Leg. She closes them and turns her head to the side, burying it into a dusty pillow.

"Daughter, eh?"

Ezekiel scratches his goatee. He takes several minutes to inspect Broken Legs and then puts his hand on her forehead.

"I see her legs have been set and splinted. Broc flower paste for antiseptic. Yao guai sinew for stitches." He takes a step back and begins to dig through an old filing cabinet. "Who patched her up? Doesn't look like the work of a legionnaire."

I ignore the question. "Can you help her?"

Ezekiel shrugs. "She's lost a lot of blood. She should just rest for now, before I start probing her and reopen her wounds. I can give her med-x for the pain. Perhaps a little Buffout. . ."

Caesar banned chems from legion lands when he took power. During my time in his service, I'd come to see why. Many of the captives we took from the Mojave were chem addicts. One look at them, and you could tell how quickly jet, buffout, and psycho ruin your mind and body. Within a day of their arrival, those addicts would get sick from withdrawal and shrink into gaunt, shaking shells of their former selves.

Most would have to be killed. Addicts made poor slaves. They were already slaves to their addiction, and a good slave can only serve one master.

"_Chems_?" I grimace as Ezekiel fumbles with a med-x needle.

"Chems - medicine - what's the difference?" Ezekiel sneers. "Are you able to pay for this? My supply is limited. Not a lot of traders come out here, besides that queer Arab."

I hadn't considered payment. You never had to pay a healer in the legion. They were required to heal you.

We all served Caesar.

"I - I have this." I pull the pistol Twil bought for me out of my robe. "And one clip of ammo for it."

"Enough for now." Ezekiel snatches the weapon from me. His spindly hands look like claws. "I have a medical brace or two somewhere around here. Tomorrow I'll change her dressings and fasten them on her. Are you staying in White Tree? She won't be able to walk for two weeks at least - and even then - she'll need crutches."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You should talk to Jethro. He doesn't like having nonbelievers in our midst. Thinks they bring bad luck to his flock." Ezekiel slides the needle into Broken Legs's arm.

She doesn't react. I watch as he slowly depresses the plunger.

"Where can I find Jethro?"

"If he's not in the church, he could be anywhere, making his rounds. He's about your height. Black hair. Grey robe. Dark eyes-"

The bishop. . . .

"Carrying a Bible?"

"That's him. You've met?"

I don't answer. I lift up the tent flap and make my way outside.

Jethro is still standing next to the guard tower. Two of the mercs who intercepted me at the wall are standing next to him. They take a few steps back as I approach.

I expected Jethro to be older. The bishop looks no older than Twil. Thirty perhaps. He isn't muscular. Nothing about him looks particularly threatening. His hair is cut neatly. His robe is spotless. Only his eyes are unsettling. They're too dark. His pupils blend into his irises.

"You're Jethro?"

"Yes. Sorry I didn't introduce myself to you before." Jethro smiles. It's a plastic smile. His lips look like earthworms. "My apologies. Ezekiel is treating your daughter?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's her name?"

"Broken Legs." I say without thinking.

Jethro's eyes narrow. "An unfortunate name. A prophesy fulfilled, so it would seem."

I feel like I've just been punched in the gut. Broken Legs and her legs are broken? How unbelievably convenient.

Why didn't I make up a different name for her? How could I have been so stupid?

He won't believe me anymore. He's pegged me as a liar.

"She's a tribal?'" Jethro continues.

"Her mother was." I try not to let my voice betray my nervousness. "I didn't know I had a daughter until a few days ago. Her mother's dead. I couldn't pronounce her tribal name so I renamed her."

"What was her mother's name?"

"Swift Rabbit."

Jethro doesn't blink. "Are you sure it wasn't 'Twil'?"

My throat goes dry.

How could he know?

"Who?" I feign innocence.

"You're a poor liar, Mr. Io. I saw the girl's legs. The binding was the work of a Yampa medicine woman. My father came here to study the Yampa's healing techniques so he could bring their knowledge back to Ogden. Sadly, he spent too many years with the tribe and their culture corrupted him. I know all of their tricks. Twil is the only Yampa medicine woman left out there."

"Was your father's name Jethro?"

I still can't believe that the Jethro in front of me is the man Twil has been telling me about. I had pictured a much larger man. A barrel-chested giant. The man in front of me is of average build and height, and is much thinner than I am.

I could take him down with ease. If I wanted to. . .

"No, his name was Marc." Jethro says curtly. "Twil treated your daughter?"

"I met a medicine woman on the road." I shrug. "She patched Broken Legs up and told me about this town. That's why I came here."

"Be truthful, now. Is the girl Twil's daughter or yours?" Jethro's gaze is iron.

"Mine." I sniff. "Why does it matter?"

"I saw a bit of myself in her. Her face. And she's the right age. . ." Jethro trails off. "It would be just like Twil to send her here with you. She's rather conniving. . ."

I finally realize that Jethro is asking if _he's _Broken Legs' father.

"_You and Twil were together_?"

Jethro avoids the question. "Was the girl attacked? Why are her legs broken?"

"She was caught by the 80s. They're on their way to Ogden. They're going to sack it."

"You're certain of this?" Jethro raises an eyebrow.

"Very."

Jethro leans into one of the mercs and has a quick, hushed conversation. When he's finished, the mercs walk off.

"White Tree is a god-fearing settlement, Mr. Io. We take our religion very seriously. I'll let Ezekiel treat your daughter - we're good neighbors here - but unless you plan on joining my flock, you'll need to be on your way afterwards."

"Okay. . ."

Jethro smiles. "Have you heard of the Good Word? I'd be more than happy to tell you all about it. If you're interested."

"Whose words?"

"Our Lord and savior's."

_Another _proselytizer.

"The Bible? I've read it. Most of it, anyway."

"What about the Third Testament?"

"Never heard of it."

Jethro taps the Bible tucked under his arm. He holds it out to me, and I glance down at the cover.

_The Book of Mormon._

"The old legion - the Romans - were heathens too. You must know this. Godless idolaters." Jethro says with conviction. "But they became the bedrock of the church. If you'd be interested in hearing more about-"

"Jethro!" A loud shout interrupts our conversation.

I turn around. The blood drains from my face. Four mercs are approaching us, and Twil is pinned between them. Her hands are bound behind her back. One of the mercs has her by the hair and is yanking her towards us.

My blood boils.

"We found the witch spying on us."

The merc pushes Twil up to Jethro. She falls to her knees and then glares up at him.

"Twil." Jethro's eyes sparkle.

Twil stands up and spits on him.

"Exactly the greeting I expected." Jethro doesn't react. The spittle soaks into his robe. He points at me. "Do you know this man?"

Twil eyes me for a moment and then shakes her head. "No."

"He says you treated his daughter."

Twil squirms, fumbling for an answer.

"Is she yours? Is she _ours_, Twil?"

Twil smiles. Then, unbelievably, she laughs.

"If you had planted your seed in me - when you forced yourself on me - I would have flushed it out of my womb. I'd never give you a child." Twil snickers. "But I didn't have to worry about that, did I? You're sterile. _You're all sterile_."

I'm confused by this but say nothing.

Jethro is unmoved. "Why have you come back?"

"I didn't. Your dogs grabbed me and carried me here." Twil glares at the mercs, directing her anger at the one with the facial tattoos, "Don't think I don't recognize you under those New Canaanite clothes, Urahil. Father was right about you. We never should have taken you into our tribe. He knew you'd betray us."

"She was spying on us from the trees." Urahil sneers. "Looking for weaknesses."

"You still plan to unseat me? You want to drag these people back into darkness? Look at how much good work I've done here."

Jethro motions to the church, the guard tower, the brahmin pen, and the wooden palisade.

"This is my village." Twil seethes. "These are my people."

"These are God's people. I've helped them find God. The one, true God. Not the demons you worship and that you'd have them kneel to. I told you what would happen if you ever came back. God commands us to burn witches. I never wanted to hurt you, Twil. You always force me to. . ."

"_She's not a witch_." I put myself between Twil and Jethro. "You said it yourself; she uses plants and herbs to heal people, not hurt them. No magic."

"Twil is capable of more than you know. When I first came to White Tree, my New Canaanite followers were triple the number they are now. Twil's mother, Ayla, put a hex on us for burning her pagan alters. Within days, my flock was struck by boils that would not heal. Instead, they festered. Open sores on the face, hands, and feet. Ezekiel could do nothing to treat us. Most of those afflicted died. Those that didn't were left infertile. . .It was an unnatural sickness. The work of the devil."

"I wish her hex had taken you." Twil sniffs.

"God had other designs for me and for my flock. The fact that we stand here now, and Ayla does not, is a testament to that and the Lord's power. Though the Lord tested us - like Job - we kept our faith and did not kneel before false idols."

Twil scowls. "If your God was just, he wouldn't have created you to begin with."

"I will give you another chance to accept God, Twil. Just as I did before. I know you will refuse, but God is all-forgiving. The Lord will wash away your sins if you accept Him. If you accept Him; He will accept you. Give yourself to Him."

"I spit on your God and on you!" Twil, again, hocks a wad of spit onto Jethro.

"Burn her." He mutters.

"No!"

I draw my machete. The steel rings. The mercs take a step back and then level their rifles at my chest. I could take down one of them before the rest filled me with holes. Not a bad death, but not one that I'd wish for.

"Twil didn't come here. _I did_. I found the girl and Twil treated her. She told me about White Tree and said there'd be a doctor here. She guided me here. I took the girl here so Twil wouldn't have to break your rules-"

"Not my rules. God's commandments. Heathens shall not live amongst us." Jethro's tone is fiery. "Lying is against His commandments too, Mr. Io."

I frown. "What about rape?"

"A bold accusation."

"Twil told me what you did to her."

"And why did _you _come here?" Jethro snaps. "The legion isn't known for their kindness towards women or for rescuing cripples. The child is not yours. That much is obvious. You came here because of Twil. Why?"

Why did I come? Why did I follow Twil? Why did I pick up Broken Legs?

There's only one answer.

"To challenge you as her champion."

"Haha!" Jethro lets out a belly laugh. He then turns to his mercs. "So this was Twil's scheme all along. He's just her puppet. How fitting she chose a legionnaire to challenge a disciple of Christ. Shall we duke it out in the arena? A throwback to the first martyrs? I think not. We are savages no longer. Nor do we keep their customs. Challenge me if you wish, Mr. Io, but I won't oblige. If you want, you can burn with Twil."

"Are you afraid?" I blink.

"Afraid of what?"

"You said your God is stronger than hers. If He is, then you have nothing to fear from fighting me. You won't lose with your God behind you."

Jethro grins. "And Jesus said to the devil: 'Thou shalt not test the Lord.'"

"Coward! All of you are cowards!" Twil screams.

A small crowd of villagers has gathered around us. I can tell from the looks on their faces that many of them recognize Twil. Some of them avert their eyes when she looks at them. Others stare at her with morbid fascination.

Twil raves at them. "Nhatal, Gemine, Urahil! My mother and father protected you all - all of you - and you let him burn her! _Alkalhas homash indeki voila_! May Ayla's spirit torment you! I curse you! Let all of you be barren and impotent like your masters! Burn in Jethro's hell and in the spirit world! Burn forever!"

The crowd shirks under the weight of Twil's words. Many of the villagers are trembling. Especially the Yampa.

"Do not fear the witch." Jethro puts his hands up to try and reassure his flock. He taps his Bible. "She has no power here."

"Prove it!" I goad him, machete still in hand. "Fight me."

Jethro glares at me, brooding.

"No."

"Then you have no faith." I mock him. "How can you fear death if you truly believe? What sweeter death is there, than the death of a martyr?"

Jethro is silent. The crowd is on edge, shifting their gaze between him, Twil, and myself, as if they're trying to decide which one of us is more powerful.

Jethro can sense the crack in his leadership and nips it in the bud.

"Alright, Mr. Io." He says calmly. "I accept your challenge. We shall see which is stronger - pagan idols - or the one true God. Urahil, put a rope around the witch's neck and clear a patch of ground for us to fight on. Saul - _bring me my hammer_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 9**

Clash of Champions

The afternoon sun gleams off the blade of my machete. The light stabs into my eyes. A crowd of White Tree villagers have gathered around me and Jethro in a large, ever-shifting circle. Most of the spectators are Yampa men and women. They are watching me eagerly, as I prepare to duel their chieftain in the middle of town.

Twil is standing beside the guard tower. A rope has been tied around her neck. Urahil is positioned behind her. If I lose this duel, he'll garrote Twil, strangling her the moment I go down.

I can't fail, or Twil and I will die together. And not just us. I have a feeling that Jethro will condemn Broken Legs to die, too.

Jethro is standing opposite me, next to a small group of New Canaanites. One hands him his chosen weapon - a war hammer that's about three feet long. Its head is smaller than a sledge hammer's, and on one side it's pointed, like the back spike of a fireman's axe. The shaft is wood, reinforced by strips of crudely smelted steel.

I take a practice swing with my machete and listen as it cuts through the air. My heart is pounding in my chest. The afternoon sun gives everything an orange hue. I look over at Twil and she cracks a smile.

Jethro steps away from his attendants and picks up an unpainted, wooden shield. The shield is a foot wide. It's little more than four wooden boards that have been nailed together and sawed into a circle. He feeds his arm through the shieldback's leather loop, so he's protected wrist-to-shoulder on the left side.

There's a shield for me too, if I want it. An old Yampa man approaches and attempts to hand it to me.

I shake my head and decline.

A shield would provide good protection against a weapon like my machete. Even though the wood isn't particularly thick, it could block or parry a stab. But Jethro's hammer is a different matter. One solid hit from the hammer head or back spike and the shield would splinter. And even if I blocked the hit, the force of the impact could shatter my arm.

I decide that the shield would only give me a false sense of safety. I'd rather have the maneuverability and the chance to grapple hand-to-hand with a free, unencumbered arm.

"It's not too late to change your mind." Jethro slowly approaches, using his hammer like a walking staff. "You have no stake in this. This isn't your fight. This isn't your tribe."

"No. _It's hers_." I glance over at Twil and watch the wind flutter her curly hair. She's still smiling. She's proud of me. I've never seen her so happy - even though a noose is looped around her neck.

"I warn you, I'm very good with my hammer. You will lose, Mr. Io. I wouldn't have accepted your challenge if I didn't think I would win."

"Neither would I. . ."

Jethro furrows his brow. The wind ripples across his cloak. Dust swirls around us, and somewhere, a crow caws overhead.

"Twil is going to die." Jethro says curtly. "Why die with her? What is she to you?"

"She. . ." I hesitate. I can feel Twil's gaze burning into me. I picture her smile. "She saved my life."

Jethro barely acknowledges this. He scans the crowd and raises his hammer into the air, holding it high above his head.

"The pagan and the witch have challenged me and the one almighty God to trial by combat! Let their deaths illuminate the path to absolution for all who are present, and for all who have cracks in the armor of their faith. Let everyone here know the power of the one true God, and let the pagan and the witch suffer His wrath in the hereafter. . .And may God have mercy on them."

I put my right leg forward and dip into a fighting stance. The crowd falls silent. All I can hear is the wind, and occasionally, the wail of a baby clinging to its mother's back.

Jethro kneels in the dirt and bows his head.

"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. . ."

Several New Canaanites in the crowd chime in with an 'amen.'

Jethro rises to his feet.

One of the New Canaanites calls out to me.

"Legionnaire! Do you have any last words?"

I close my eyes.

All I can think of is my mother. An old memory of her. I must have only been a toddler at the time.

Two boys had roughed me up with wooden swords after sparring practice. Through teary eyes, I saw my mother coming back to our tent from one of the mills. I ran up to her, crying like a baby. My tears soaked into her filthy slave rags.

My mother picked me up and I hugged her tightly. When I pulled away, I saw that my hands were stained a dark red. I watched my mother duck into our tent. Her master had whipped her with a cat-of-nine tails. The steel barbs cut straight through her tattered rags, leaving ten deep cuts on her back.

"For Ionia." I mutter. "_Requiescat in pace_."

Jethro nods and taps his hammer against his shield.

"Let's begin."

The duel starts, but little happens. For a few moments, Jethro and I circle each other, probing for weaknesses, not yet ready to commit to an attack.

I strike first. A quick slash at Jethro's head. Instead of blocking the swipe, Jethro steps back, beyond my reach, and responds with a hammer swing aimed at my chest.

I can feel the whoosh of the air as the hammer comes down full force. I sidestep the blow, but Jethro fluidly transitions the downward thrust into a sideways strike with the hammer's spiked end.

I meet the strike head on with my machete to try and parry it. The force of the blow makes the steel ring and sends a painful shock up my arm.

With my other arm, I grab the shaft of Jethro's hammer, but before I can get a good grip on it, Jethro lunges forward and hits me in the shoulder with his shield. I teeter backwards, but am able to regain my balance. I try to stab Jethro in the armpit but he blocks my blade with his shield and then darts away.

Jethro has more reach and more force behind his blows than I do. I'm more nimble, and - _I hope _- I have more stamina. Swinging a hammer is hard work, and the best way to fight with one is to always keep it in motion, which will quickly tire you out. Instead of going toe-to-toe with Jethro, I decide to wear him down with a flurry of quick attacks. If that doesn't work, I'll try and get inside of his reach to grapple and stab.

I swing my machete up high at Jethro's head, then straight at his gut, then down towards his thigh. Jethro blocks every attack with his shield and then swings his hammer around in a circle to give himself more breathing space.

We're both sweating now. The sun burns hot on my skin. My left shoulder is sore from being battered by Jethro's shield, and my right arm is a bit numb from parrying his hammer.

Jethro refuses to play my game. He lets me dance around him, as I pop in and out for a quick strike, but never initiates an attack. He isn't going to let me exhaust him. He's conserving his energy, relying on his reach. I decide to try and get inside of his guard and strike low, at his legs.

I juke around him and slice open his right knee with a quick swipe.

Jethro winces and hops away. The cut isn't deep. As he tries to recover, I swing my machete at his head. He blocks the blow with his hammer, and while he's committed, I grab his shield with my free hand. I continue hacking at his hammer with my machete, keeping him off balance until I'm able to take the shield from him.

A new Canaanite in the crowd curses.

"Kill him, Io!" Twil shouts.

I throw Jethro's shield behind me and press on with a barrage of quick hacks at his arms and head.

Jethro stops me with a sideways swing from his hammer. When I back up, he spins around in a circle, pressing his attack. I jump back to avoid the hammer's spike and then spin left to avoid its head. Jethro presses on, and I meet him, still trying to stay inside of his reach.

I grab the hammer's shaft with one hand and run my machete's blade along it to cut off Jethro's fingers. He charges me, and I lose my grip.

As I stagger backward, Jethro spins around, swinging the hammer in a circle. I avoid it, but when I try to stab him in the heart, he continues the swing, and I lose sight of the hammerhead.

Within a second, it's buried in the small of my back.

NO!

I fall to my knees from the force of the blow. My bones crack. My kidney's been smashed. My insides are on fire.

I hear Twil scream.

Before I can get back to my feet, something connects with my skull.

I hear a loud ring and everything goes black.

(*************)

When I wake up, my skull is throbbing. I'm hazy from a concussion. I feel a stabbing pain in my spine. I try to move my hands and realize that they're tied behind me and stretched around something.

I can feel what it is.

A tree.

I open my eyes and my vision slowly clears.

Twil is hanging from the same tree I'm tied to. The noose is still around her neck, though now it's pulled taut, and she's dangling from it. She's just a few feet away, but I'm tied to the tree trunk, and cannot reach her.

I kick my legs and scream.

"**TWIL**! Twil! Can you hear me?"

Twil doesn't react. Her feet are bare. Her toes twitch. Her face looks purple. The noose has dug itself deeply into her neck, making a bloody ring.

"Fuck, Twil! I'm sorry! Twil! I'm so sorry! I - I didn't mean to. I - I. . ."

The wind blows; hard this time. Twil's limp body sways back and forth on the noose. I lock eyes with her. Her eyes seem to have a glint of life left in them. I struggle in my bonds, screaming.

"Twil! **TWIL**!"

My eyes flood with tears. I can't be sure, but it looks like Twil is still alive. I beg her not to die. I continue screaming. Within moments, that last glint of life fades, and I know that I've lost her forever.

I cry. Time passes. I have no idea how much time. My mind is still swimming from the concussion. All I can think of is Twil. And my mother. Sometimes I see Ionia hanging from that noose instead of Twil.

I couldn't save either one of them. . . .

Slowly, my cries turn into wails. Then a litany of obscenities.

I curse Jethro. I curse the New Canaanites. I curse the legion.

Most of all, I curse myself.

I've failed her.

Why? Why didn't they kill me too? I was supposed to die with Twil. . .

This is so much worse. I can't bear to look up at her now.

More time passes. It all blends together. My dirty clothes are soaked with tears. They drip down my chin like melting ice. I've been struggling in my bonds for so long that my wrists are red and raw. The sun is hanging a bit lower in the sky. It's just over Twil's shoulder. I glance at her and begin to cry again.

The hammer wound on my back must have reopened from my struggling, as I can see blood beginning to pool around my feet. Everything becomes a bit cooler. I'm dizzy.

It's hard to stay awake now. I want to go to sleep.

All of a sudden, I hear something carrying over my sobs. An odd noise, but I've heard it before. The gentle chiming of bells.

Ali. . .Ali's caravan.

Adrenaline surges through my broken body. I whip my head to the side. About a hundred yards to my left is a meandering gravel trail. I can see someone walking along it, towards me.

It's the one-eyed woman. Kat.

Kat is wearing jungle green combat armor. In her arms is an assault rifle. She's holding it to her cheek, methodically sweeping the area with her blue, glass eye. She's on alert. She's heard my cries.

"Kat! Kat!" I scream.

Kat continues her cautious approach. There's no hurry in her step. Ali, his brahmin, and his two other mercs are slowly lumbering their way down the trail, but they're far behind Kat.

They can't hear me, but I know she can.

Kat slowly walks over to me and Twil. She shoulders her rifle and blankly stares up at Twil's lifeless body, swaying on the noose. There isn't even a trace of sadness in Kat's one real eye. Her gaze is stone.

I'm enraged.

"Cut her down!" I snarl. "What are you doing! Cut her down!"

Kat calmly reaches into her armor and pulls out a Bouie knife. She's tall - taller than I am. She's reaches up and cuts Twil out of her noose.

Twil falls to the ground like dead weight.

I struggle against my restraints. Kat casually walks up behind me and cuts me free. I rush over to Twil and cradle her head in my hands.

"She's dead." Kat says dryly.

I press down on Twil's chest and breathe into her mouth to try and resuscitate her, mimicking a technique an old legionnaire taught me. I count the seconds and switch back and forth between her chest and mouth, trying to breathe life back into her empty shell.

"That won't work." Kat puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to pull me away. "She's dead."

I stare into Kat's glass eye. "Fuck you!"

I shove Kat with all of my strength. She doesn't budge. She feels like she's made of solid rock. I'm weaker than before and collapse to my knees.

"Kitarshna!" Ali's call carries across the scrubland. He and his caravan are very close now. I can hear brahmin hooves grinding against the gravel trail. "What's going on?"

Kat leaves me be. I take Twil's cold hand into mine. I'm crying again. I can't help it.

"_No. No. No_." Ali shuffles over to me and Twil. He covers his mouth with his hands, shakes his head, and closes his eyes. "My malak. My poor malak. What - what happened to her?"

"I failed her. . .I failed her." I look up at Ali. He and his mercs are hovering over me now. They seem to be swaying, but that's probably just in my head. "It was my fault. It - it was me. . .I was supposed to be her champion. . .I was supposed to save her. . .I. . ."

Ali kneels down next to Twil's body. He runs his fingers across her cheek.

"My poor malak. My poor malak. She - she is at peace. . .I'm sorry my friend. So sorry."

"It was my fault!"

"I'm sorry. She was my angel. She is with Allah now. His angel. . ." Ali begins to choke up. He wipes a tear from his eye and turns to his mercs. "Thomas, get a shroud from my brahmin. . .and bring me my Koran. I - I need to say prayers."

"I'll get it." Kat chimes in.

Kat's nonchalance infuriates me. I want to tackle her, but have no strength left. I clench down on Twil's lifeless hand even tighter than before.

"My friend. My friend!" Ali begins to shake me. "You're injured. You're bleeding. Badly. There's blood everywhere. Kitarshna! Bring a stimpak! Quickly!"

"Get off of me!"

I can't think. Well, I _can _think - but only of Twil. Ali's right though. My clothes are dripping blood. The adrenaline is gone, and I'm dizzy again.

I begin to keel over and one of Ali's mercs catches me as I black out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 10**

The Sons and Daughters of Anchorage

Twil is dead. The thought still makes me sick to my stomach. Every time I close my eyes, I picture her swaying on the noose. Her face is purple as her life slips away. I'm powerless to do anything, and I watch her die a hundred times over.

Kat dug Twil's grave a few yards away from the tree where Jethro's men hung her. It had only taken her an hour to make the hole. As Ali tended to my wounds, I watched her methodically jam her shovel into the dirt and then throw the dislodged soil over her shoulder, over-and-over again, in a mechanical motion.

Kat never took a break until she finished. She never broke a sweat. Her breathing was always at an even, flat rhythm. She never even took off her gear or her combat armor.

I'd never seen anyone - not even a slave with a whip to his back - work so tirelessly.

After the grave was completed, Ali and the other two mercs, Jonathan and Thomas, laid Twil to rest.

I was too exhausted to help them.

Kat piled dirt on top of Twil's body while Ali gathered up several large, white stones. All of us helped him make a cairn to keep coyotes and yao gaui from digging up the grave site.

As we finish our work, Ali pulls out his Koran, and begins to read from it.

I listen intently. There's still an ache in my back from where Ali sowed my wounds shut. A stimpak had eliminated most of the pain, but as of now, it's sore and itches like crazy.

While Ali continues to chant from his old book, Jonathan and Thomas take off their hats and put their hands over their hearts.

Kat and I do nothing.

_"Allah hu Akbar! Bismillāhi r-ra__ḥ__māni r-ra__ḥ__īm. Al __ḥ__amdu lillāhi rabbi l-'ālamīn. Ar ra__ḥ__māni r-ra__ḥ__īm. Māliki yawmi d-dīn. Iyyāka na'budu wa iyyāka nasta'īn. Ihdinā __ṣ__-__ṣ__irā__ṭ__ al-mustaqīm. __Ṣ__irā__ṭ__ al-la__ḏ__īna an'amta 'alayhim ġayril maġ__ḍ__ūbi 'alayhim walā__ḍ__ḍ__āllīn."_

The wind blows across the dry scrub. A tear trickles down Ali's cheek. He slowly closes book and his eyes.

"That sounded. . .pretty." The younger merc, Jonathan, turns to Ali, inquisitively. "What's it mean?"

"In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful, all appreciation, gratefulness and thankfulness are to Allah alone. Lord of the worlds. Bringer of the Day of Judgment. To You we worship, and to You we seek help. Direct all of us to the straight path in now and the hereafter-"

"Twil didn't believe in Allah," I mutter, a tad unsteady on my legs. I've lost a lot of blood and still feel a dizzy. "Twil believed in Great Mother. You should say your prayers to Her - if anyone. What does Allah care about a _heathen_?"

"Allah has many names, my friend. And thousands of faces. Great Mother. Jehovah. The Father in the Cave. They are Allah, and Allah is them. All that matters is faith - not what you call Him."

I stare down at the alabaster stones that mark Twil's grave. The dead feel no pain. I wish I was buried under those rocks with her.

Goodbye Twil. . .

I loved you. . .

I barely knew you. . .

If I had any tears left; I'd be crying.

"Is that it?" Kat asks. Her deep voice breaks the long silence.

All eyes turn to Kat. Jonathan and Thomas look bemused. Ali's a blank.

I'm infuriated.

_"What the hell's wrong with you?"_

"It's okay friend. Don't be upset," Ali puts himself between Kat and myself. "We all mourn in different ways. Come back to my brahmin. You need another stimpak. And I want to check your stitches."

Disgusted, I limp away, holding onto Ali's shoulder for balance.

Ali digs through his inventory, looking for more medical supplies. I have no idea how he expects me to pay for them. I have no caps and nothing to trade. Slowly, I lower myself onto a rock and take an uncomfortable seat. Jonathan and Thomas return from the cairn and help Ali get his brahmin ready.

And life goes on. I remember hearing that somewhere - a long time ago. Twil is dead, but the sun's still rising in the sky. Ravens are cawing overhead. Mole rats are munching on agave fruit.

Everyone and everything is behaving like nothing just happened.

Everyone but me.

I have nothing left. There's nothing left for me in this world.

Well, maybe one thing.

Ali returns with a stimpak and I inject it into my upper thigh. He hands me another, checks the stitches running along my lower back, and then shakes my hand, firmly.

"Very sorry. It's time for us to go. We're headed to New Vegas." Ali gestures south. " If you want, you can join us. Freeside takes in anyone; Legion, NCR, regardless."

I feel the anesthetic from the stimpak course through my veins. My head clears a little. I feel energized.

"What about Twil?" I sniff.

"What do you mean, friend?"

"They _murdered _her. You're just going to walk away? They murdered your malak. You and your mercs aren't going to do something?"

"Io," Ali sighs. "I loved Twil. I watched her grow up from a shy little girl, to a proud woman. _But Twil killed herself_. You know this. If you're consumed by hatred it will consume you. She did not have to challenge Jethro - as I'm sure she did. And you did not have to be her champion. What's done is done. Her fate was decided by Allah. Best to let it rest"

"Jethro _murdered _her!" I fume. I want to wring Ali's neck, but think better of it.

"You helped him." Ali says dryly. "If you hadn't agreed to fight, Twil would still be alive. More violence won't solve anything."

Violence won't solve anything, but I lust for it. I picture throttling Jethro - jamming my machete deep into his pale neck. As he falls to the ground, choking on his own blood, I can faintly hear Broken Legs crying.

"Twil and I rescued a girl. I took her to White Tree. Jethro will kill her. I have to get her."

I'm not sure that Jethro actually will kill Broken Legs; but I'm not sure he won't.

Ali walks over to his pack brahmin and grabs an old hunting rifle off of its side. He hands it to me along with two clips of ammo.

"If you want vengeance, take it." He shrugs. "I'm going. It's bad business to attack towns I trade with. I'm a merchant and a man of peace. Sorry my friend. Allah teaches us to forgive."

"What about you?" I turn to Ali's mercs. I don't expect them to offer any help, but figure I might as well ask.

Thomas and Jonathan refuse to meet my gaze. They pack up their gear like they didn't hear me.

Cowards.

I use the hunting rifle as a crutch and turn to limp off, into the woods.

"_I'll come with you_."

I look back and see Kat smiling at me.

It's unsettling.

I watch as she walks over to the brahim and digs through its saddlebags.

"Kitarshna!" Ali waddles over to her. "You haven't completed your contract. It's not up until we reach New Vegas."

"Then I'll take half payment."

Kat shoulders a rucksack, grabs a grenade, and removes a wicked-looking rifle from a leather sleeve that's tied to the side of the brahmin.

I've never seen a weapon like it.

Ali calls after Kat, but she doesn't heed him. She walks up to me and stares at me with her blue glass eye.

"Well?" She motions to the woods. "Are we going?"

(***)

Kat takes the lead during our march back to White Tree. She's chosen a path that goes through the woods, meandering across the rocks and scrub, into dry conifer forest.

She doesn't talk, but the lack of conversation doesn't bother me.

I still resent her.

After a half an hour or so, we come upon a small pond nestled under an outcrop of red rocks. My mouth is parched. I feel queasy from dehydration. I pick up a leaf and use it to scoop up some water.

The tepid water feels heavenly on my cracked tongue. I offer some to Kat, but she waves it off with a head shake.

"Thank you for coming along." I say between gulps. "I didn't think you would. You didn't seem to care about Twil."

Kat fiddles with her pony tail. She stares at me.

"What are you good at?"

"Good at?" I furrow my brow. "I can read and write - in English and Latin. I'm good at dice. I know Prewar history and mythology-"

"No." Kat cuts me off. "_In combat_. What are you good at? Sniping? Infiltrating? Scouting? Demolitions?"

"Oh. . .I'm a decent shot with a rifle. I'm bad at sneaking. I'm good with a machete - though not as good as I thought I was. Obviously."

"Can you set or disarm mines and booby traps?"

"No."

Kat pulls the strange rifle from her back and examines it. She removes its magazine.

"How many men are guarding White Tree?"

"Five that I saw. There's a wooden wall around the town. And a tall guard tower in the center. They saw Twil from pretty far off. They have a good vantage."

"Then we'll attack at night. When only I can see." Kat taps her glass eye. She motions for us to keep walking.

"You can see in the dark with that eye?"

Kat ignores the question. We continue to walk in silence.

"I'm sorry about your friend. Twil. You're angry at how I treated her body." Kat glances back. "I'm not used to death. I find it fascinating."

"You aren't used to death? By the look of you, you must have killed someone."

"I've killed those who've attacked me, but I've never _known_someone who's died. Personally. It's unfamiliar."

"Really? No one?"

Kat takes a moment to answer. "Where I come from, we don't die."

The trees creak all around us.

"How's that possible? Where _do_you come from?"

"Anchorage." Kat turns away from me and continues walking.

I struggle to keep up with her quick pace. "Everyone's immortal in Anchorage?"

"We're all networked to Anchorage. If my body dies, a piece of me survives in the mainframe. I will always be part of Anchorage."

"I don't understand. . .what – what is Anchorage?"

"A computer. It was built to link several minds together to form a collective consciousness. The military thought a collective consciousness would be more intelligent than any A.I. and that all of its constituents could retain a separate identity. Just before the war, one hundred men and women were plugged into the Anchorage mainframe. When the bombs fell, the facility went dormant, but the mainframe survived. The bodies of the men and women linked to Anchorage eventually died, but their minds live on - in the system."

"So you. . .you were one of those people?" I say in disbelief. "_You're Prewar_?"

"No. Those people are trapped in the mainframe. They have no bodies. I was born into the Kamchatka Tribe. One of our elders rediscovered Anchorage. Overtime, my tribe modified ourselves so we could link up with Anchorage. Become a part of Anchorage. Anchorage showed us the way. We're a collective. The Sons and Daughters of Anchorage."

None of this makes sense.

"So. . .you're human?"

"Correct." Kat nods. "With augments that allow me to access Anchorage. My eye is the most noticeable. Most others are internal."

"Are you linked to it right now?"

I feel a sudden rush of nausea. Kat helps me over to an old Joshua tree. I lean against it to rest and then vomit.

Slowly, I regain my composure and Kat meets my gaze.

"I chose to sever myself from Anchorage. All of us have the option to - as long as we still have bodies."

For whatever reason, I'm still curious. "Why'd you leave?"

"I've been with Anchorage for one hundred and forty-seven years. I was curious what else was out there. Anchorage has scouts that roam the wastes, but I wanted to see the world for myself. This is the only way to do that."

"Can you go back?"

"Yes. Anchorage will be eager to access any new knowledge I've acquired: I've scouted sixteen frontier towns, recovered this prototype automatic rifle, and learned six new languages."

"Do you?" I cough. I feel even dizzier than before and assume that the stimpak is wearing off. "Do you want to go back?"

"Not yet. I want to see New Vegas. The NCR. The Capital Wasteland. There are many things left for me to see, and may years left to see them in."

I close my eyes. This makes me feel even worse. I see flecks of metallic yellow.

"Ali knew about this? About you?"

"No. We are forbidden to tell outsiders."

"Then why did you tell me?"

Kat leans into my ear.

"_You're going to die_."

"What – what do you mean?" I back away. "Everyone's going to die. Except you and your tribe."

"When I told you I was fascinated by death – I was talking about you. That's why I wanted to come along. You're going to die in less than seventy-two hours. You will not have an opportunity to tell anyone about Anchorage. Our secret is safe with you."

"How am I going to die? _You're going to kill me_?"

"You're suffering from an intraparenchymal hemorrhage." Kat points to her glass eye. "I can see it. The blood flow."

"A what?"

"Your brain is bleeding. You must have taken a hard blow to the head. The physical symptoms will progress. Fatigue, dizziness, hearing loss, vision loss, loss of muscle control - and eventually - _death_. You have seventy-two hours."

My mind swirls.

"You - you can't do anything about it?"

"You'd need surgery to survive. Prewar databanks I downloaded from Anchorage before severing myself allowed me to diagnose you - but I have never preformed surgery. I know how to, but lack the equipment. Even if I had the equipment, knowing what needs to be done and doing it are very different. I would probably kill you if I attempted to operate."

"You won't try?"

"I lack the equipment and there is no suitable equipment within walking area. Even if I were able to operate, afterwards, you'd be bedridden for weeks. You'd be unable to save the child you mentioned. You'd be paralyzed - partially."

"Broken Legs? Why didn't you tell me before? Why now?"

"I couldn't be certain of the diagnosis until it progressed. You seemed intent on a suicidal assault on White Tree - I didn't think it would matter. I want to observe you."

"So I'm dead." I sniff. "Regardless. I'm dead. . .and you. . .you want to watch me die. Like a. . .lab rat?"

"Correct." Kat blinked. "I will aid you in your assault as fire support – if that is your wish. It will give me an opportunity to field test this weapon. That is, if you wish to continue. . ."

I laugh.

"Well what the fuck else am I going to do? If I'm going to die; I may as well take Jethro down with me."

"Good." Kat smiles. "White Tree is two miles from here. Rest. We'll move in at nightfall."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 11**

Those Who are about to Die Salute You

The sun is setting behind White Tree. Five golden fingers of light poke above its jagged wooden walls. Kat and I are hidden in the weeds and scrub five hundred yards away. For the past hour, we've barely moved.

I've felt nauseous all day. Off balance, like I have a concussion. Right now, the vertigo is intense. I lie down and close my eyes.

Kat stirs and I hear the click of her automatic rifle.

"Should we move in now?" I ask with a yawn. I open my eyes and see the sun dip below the palisade. This could be the last sunset I'll ever get to see. I watch intently to try and capture its beauty, but can't get my vision to stay in focus.

"Not yet." Kitarshna does an ammo check. "It's not dark enough - give it a few minutes. . .Sure you're still up to this?"

I sit up, resting my head against the trunk of a dying tree.

"Not really, but it doesn't matter."

Kat stares at me, blankly. Her glass eye sparkles in the twilight. I look away, towards White Tree.

Twil's laughter echoes in my mind. I'm not sure I ever heard her laugh while she was alive, but I can hear it now. Haunting and mournful.

Kat reaches into her back pocket and grabs a .45 pistol. She pulls the slide back and hands it to me. I examine the weapon for a moment and bite down on my tongue. My nausea's returned. If we don't storm the town soon, I'll be too sick to do it.

"Why did you leave the legion?" Kat asks.

"I didn't. They crucified me."

"Why?"

"Cowardice." I begin to cough. A coppery taste fills my mouth and I spit out a wad of blood. "We were ordered to storm a NCR ranger outpost at the edge of the Mojave. Camp Guardian. It was on a hilltop. Great position. My centurion sent two contubernia in for a frontal assault and they were cut apart. After that, an explorer found a cave system under the hill. I told my centurion he should send us through the caves so we could sneak into the camp and catch the profligates by surprise. He thought that was cowardly. He ordered us to storm the hill, just like the last two units. It was a waste. I questioned orders, so they crucified me."

Kat's face shows no emotion. "Why did you question his order?"

"Because the attack was suicidal. Pointless. If we'd moved in through the caves, we might have taken the camp. As of now, the NCR still holds it. I know that because my centurion was crucified along with me for his failure. Come to think of it, maybe Twil should have untied him. He was a beast in hand-to-hand combat."

"What makes this attack any different?" Kat motions towards White Tree with the barrel of her rifle. A line of torches has been lit along top the palisade, making the entire settlement glow an eerie amber.

My eyes narrow. I wonder what Kat is getting at.

Dusk envelopes us.

"You said I was going to die anyway. So if I die here, it doesn't matter."

"You didn't know that when we set out."

I frown. "Okay. Then I don't know why."

"Is it because this is something you believe in?" Kat moves in closer. "Unlike the legion?"

I picture Twil hanging from the noose. My fists clench.

"Sure. You're right. I liked the legion but never believed that Caesar was a god. He wasn't worth dying for. Just another tyrant."

"What do you believe in?" Kat blinks.

My head is throbbing. Still, the question intrigues me.

How many times have I been asked what I believe in?

What do I believe in?

Why am I doing this?

"Justice." I whisper. I stand up, slowly. "What do you believe in, Kat?"

"Only what I can see." Kat smiles. "I don't believe in anything."

"That's depressing."

"What is?"

"The thought that there's nothing beyond this. That Twil, Jethro, and I are all headed to the same place. _Nothingness_. Makes life kind of pointless if there's no justice in the end."

Kat doesn't respond. She reaches inside of her armor and grasps something. I watch as she pulls out a small object. It's a steel rod with a blue, glass tip. She twirls it in her fingers.

"Do you want to live forever?"

"Forever?"

Forever is a long time. I stare at Kat to try and guess her meaning. She glances down at the rod. Its blue, crystalline tip shimmers. It's the same shade of blue as her artificial eye. I've never seen anything like it, but assume it has something to do with Anchorage.

I picture my consciousness entombed in a robo-brain, perfectly preserved in a vat of cerebral-spinal fluid. Most of my brain's functions have been suppressed by the machinations of a PreWar programmer. Now I'm just a mindless mechanical hulk, aimlessly roaming the wasteland.

Is that what its like to be a machine - to be trapped inside of lifeless circuitry - forever?

"No. Not as a. . robot. . .Or whatever you are." I pocket Kat's pistol and take my hunting rifle off my back. "If you could help me live for a little while longer, that'd be good, but I like being me. . .you know, _human_."

Kat puts the strange object away and readies her gear. "Then you should move in. It's dark now."

"Ladies first."

"No," Kat says curtly. "This is _your _justice."

A single guard is positioned beyond White Tree's outer wall. He's standing near the gravel trail that leads into town. If I make a wide arc, there's a good chance I'll be able to sneak by him. Normally, this wouldn't be too hard, but right now, my head is swimming.

I glance back at Kat. Sweat beads up on my forehead.

"You're covering me?"

Kat gives me a solemn nod. "If you need it."

I begin to shuffle forward on my hands and knees. Kat's hedged answer is anything but reassuring. For a moment, I wonder if she's going to cover me at all or just watch me die with detached interest. It doesn't matter since there's no going back. I push the doubts from my mind. If I don't focus, I'll fail.

Again.

The guard seems unaware of my presence. I continue forward, trying to stay as low as possible, below the guard tower's line of sight. My uniform clatters slightly, under my brahmin skin robe. I should have taken it off, but I haven't been thinking clearly.

I press my face into the soil as the guard peers in my direction. The ground is arid; dust floods my nose. I feel the urge to sneeze, but if I do, I'm as good as dead. Crunching footsteps signal that the guard is moving away from me. I continue creeping towards town and am able to reach the wall before I'm spotted.

With my back to the palisade, the front gate is to my left. In better days, I might have been able to scale the wall, but right now my balance is off and my vision's blurry. I clutch Kat's pistol with white knuckles. Anything could be on the other side of the wall. I close my eyes, push the gate open, and hold the .45 out in front of me.

There's one guard standing next to the gate, so close we're almost eye-to-eye. He's a tribal with tattoos obscuring most of his face. Urahil, I remember. Twil knew him and hated him. If it wasn't Jethro, Urahil was her most likely executioner.

This is for you, Twil.

Urahil sees me and begins to open his mouth. Time creeps by. I have no idea what he's about to say, but before a word leaves his lips, I fire two rounds into his chest. He falls to his knees and a woman screams in her tent, somewhere to the right of me.

Time returns to its normal pace. Men and women - mostly tribals - emerge from their huts to see what's happened. I duck behind a tent and begin to weave my way through White Tree, jogging towards the church at the town's center.

Jethro will be inside of the church; I can sense it. I close in on the stone building as commotion fills the camp. No one is guarding the doorway. I pivot inside of the church and do a quick sweep of the interior.

The church is dimly lit. Opposite me are several benches standing before a rock alter. A red cloth has been draped over the alter with fine gold trimming. An older woman is standing behind it now. Several young girls are sitting on the benches in front of her. The old crone panics when she sees me, and all the girls duck under their seats, shrieking.

Jethro is nowhere in sight. There's a stairwell to my left that leads up to a second level. At the risk of boxing myself in, I draw my rifle and ascend the stairs. The women below stampede out of the church, their clamor adding to the general alarm.

It will only be a minute or two before every guard in White Tree is on top of me.

Climbing the stairs is harder than it should be. My body is weak. My limbs are somewhat unresponsive. Even worse, my vision is smattered with little, yellow flecks.

The blood in my brain is beginning to kill me.

Five more steps and I'm on the top floor. The attic. I sweep the area with my rifle but it's an empty cube with nothing inside except a small, shuttered-up window. Someone enters the church below, and I hear their feet scrape against the stone floor.

I turn around and wait for them to move into the stairwell.

A New Canaanite in leather armor pokes his head around the corner. The moment I see his eyes, I put a bullet straight between them. He slinks to the floor, and is quickly dragged out of view. I hear a chorus of voices but one stands out from all the others.

Jethro.

"Who's up there? Did anyone see him? Sound the alarm! We need more men out here!"

"It's that man!" A woman shouts, most likely the old crone. "The one who challenged you!"

"_Io_?"

I crouch on the top step, waiting for any sign of movement.

"Is that you, Io?" Jethro's deep voice fills the stone church. "Sneaking into God's house to kill my flock in the dark of night? How cowardly - for a legionnaire. I thought you were a man of honor."

His remark cuts deep. My body tenses.

"You aren't worthy of honor. You're a fanatic. A murderer. A rapist and a liar!"

"Get some torches. We'll smoke him out," a voice suggests.

"No." Jethro balks. "This is a sacred place. We can't let it burn. Gather the men and we'll storm the attic."

This is exactly what I want, except I doubt that Jethro will lead the charge. I have to find a way to take him down before dying.

Trapped in the attic, I hunker down and wait for death. The loud rat-tat-tat of an automatic weapon breaks the tension. It's not the sound of an assault rifle - it's louder and deeper - a much larger caliber.

Kat. . .Kat has come for me.

White Tree is in chaos. I can hear screams, shouts, ricochets, and crackles of gunfire reverberate through the attic window. For a few seconds, Jethro and the New Canaanites downstairs forget all about me. I use the distraction to make an escape. I dart up to the window, knock out the shutters with the butt of my rifle, and jump into the darkness.

The ground seems to shoot up at me. I don't feel the fall, but the dirt is rock solid. I land on my knees and wave my pistol around madly.

No one is in sight. I stand up and lean against the church. It sounds like Kat is still far away, laying down suppression fire.

A man rounds the corner of the church, walking directly into my sights. Before he sees me, I kill him with several pulls of the trigger.

"Around back!" Someone shouts. "He's around back! Flush him out! All of you!"

I need to reload. My hands won't stop shaking. I fumble with the magazine and drop it. When I try to pick it up, something bites into me.

It's a sharp pain in my gut. For a moment it feels hot. I hear the shot well after I feel it. I look down and see that someone's hit me in the chest with buckshot. I collapse against the stone church and three men cautiously approach me.

Jethro is one of them. He's holding a double barrel shotgun. The barrel's still smoking.

Why did it have to be him? Why did _he _have to be the one to do it?

I try to raise my pistol, but my strength is gone.

I hear Twil laughing.

"I should have killed you with Twil." Jethro seethes. He presses the shotgun against my forehead. "Show the devil mercy, and he repays you with more sin. I should have known better. . ."

I look up at Jethro, staring straight into his dark, brooding eyes. There's something I want to say, but my thoughts are disorganized, and I can't remember.

I'm too tired now. Much too tired. I can't catch my breath. I want to go to sleep.

Jethro goes to pull the trigger, but something stops him.

"Wha - _what _are you?" Jethro and the other men turn around.

Kat is standing to their left, auto-rifle against her cheek.

"The end."

Kat opens fire. Jethro and the other two guards are chopped apart by a clip of .308 ammo.

Their bodies fall and lie heaped beside me.

I take a good, long look at Jethro. He's been hit four times in the chest. His eyes roll back and blood pools around him.

For once, I didn't fail. Jethro died before I did.

Time slows again. Kat kneels down next to me, clutching the strange rod. I'm about to die. I can feel it now. Something dark and cold is reaching for me.

What was my life? Was it a waste? Did it have a purpose?

What is purpose?

What is meaning?

"Sure you don't want to live forever?" Kat's dry voice seems to echo forever. "I can connect you to Anchorage."

My vision fades. Everything's cold now. Just another minute left. I can't breathe. As everything grows dark and numb, I mutter two last words.

_"Broken Legs. . ."_

**Epilogue**

The Lights of New Vegas

Kitarshna swept the encampment with her automatic rifle. The newest specimen was dead, just like his forerunners. The answer to the puzzle still eluded her, and it would take a long time to find another specimen like Io.

She frowned and used her cybernetic eye to scan the sea of tents surrounding her.

_He refused the neural cartographer. Why?_

_Why do so many choose death over Anchorage?_

_Insufficient data. . ._

Kitarshna wondered what she should do next. The tribals and missionaries who lived in White Tree were bound to regroup and counterattack. It would be best if she left before that happened. She began to walk towards the front gate. Io's last words popped into her mind. She could hear them so clearly it was like he was still beside her.

_Broken Legs. . ._

One of the tents towards the back of the encampment had a cot in it with a warm body resting on it. Kitarshna could see the body heat radiate through the canvas. The body was small, likely a child. Someone else was in the tent, crouched next to the cot in a defensive position.

Kitarshna proceeded toward the tent, silently. She stopped next to the entrance flap and then slipped inside in one quick motion.

The cot lay across the tent, next to a pile of bloody rags. A girl was lying on its dirty mattress. Both of her legs were encased in medical braces. Opposite the girl was a grizzled old man. He was ducking behind a wooden crate, feebly pointing a revolver in Kitarshna's direction.

Kitarshna leveled her rifle at him.

"Go away." She commanded.

The man turned white and fled the tent.

The girl on the cot whimpered as Kitarshna loomed over her.

"Are you Broken Legs?"

The girl didn't answer. Her eyes seemed to bug out as she looked Kitarshna up and down.

Kitarshna shouldered her weapon. She should have asked Io for a description of Broken Legs while he was still alive, but she deduced that this must be her. He'd described her as a young tribal with leg injuries. She leaned forward as the girl tried to wriggle away. Undeterred, she scooped her off the bed and held her in one arm so they were almost touching noses.

"Do you know Io?"

The girl continued to stare at Kitarshna, trembling. Her gaze was locked on Kitarshna's glass eye. She tried to squirm free, but Kitarshna's grip was iron.

"Io." She squeaked in a whisper. "Tlechet, Io? Whu teba indiki ie."

Kitarshna didn't understand the girl's dialect, but new languages had always interested her. Perhaps she'd be able to learn it. She carried the girl outside and scanned the immediate area.

The sky above White Tree twinkled in the dark of night. There were a few scattered voices amongst the tents, but most of the villagers had fled, and much of the encampment now lay empty.

Kitarshna walked over to the church and looked up at the stars. She wasn't sure why she'd decided to take the little girl. A part of her was always fascinated by children. Attempting to care for a human child would be an interesting experiment. Children were rare in Anchorage - and Anchorage was always eager to assimilate new data and experiences.

Kitarshna's lips twitched as she broadcasted an access request to the mainframe.

It took only a second for Anchorage to answer.

Kitarshna was granted conditional access to Anchorage, provided she upload her latest observations. She complied. The resulting merge gave her a very pleasant sensation. It was like meeting an old friend – or coming home again. She combed through Anchorage's databanks, searching for a nearby settlement where she could take the girl for medical treatment.

The closest settlement was the Sierra Madre Casino. Pathfinder Xenophon was stationed there, and his last upload was only twelve hours ago. His reports indicated that the casino was equipped with numerous Auto-Docs that could heal the girl. However, the area was enveloped by a noxious cloud of unknown origin.

_Too poisonous._

The next closest settlement was Big Mountain Research Facility. No one was stationed there at the moment, but Pathfinder Yog and Pathfinder Xenophon had passed through the area and mapped it. Threat levels were red. Numerous robotic defenses. Nightstalkers. Cazadores. Unknown, skeletal hostiles designated 'Y-17 Trauma Override Harness.'

Kitarshna looked down at the little girl.

_Too hazardous._

New Vegas was only other settlement within walking distance. If Kitarshna walked straight there - without stopping - she could arrive in the Strip within thirty hours. _She _could do that with ease, but the girl would need to rest and be provided with fresh food and water.

Fifty hours was a better approximation.

Pathfinder Yog was already in New Vegas. He had planted himself in the upper echelons of Caesar's Legion. But Fortification Hill was no place for a lamed little girl. The child would find no help there, and Kitarshna's unique appearance would raise unwanted suspicion.

The Strip was the only safe, technologically developed destination.

Kitarshna severed her connection. She then tightened her grip on the girl and began to walk due south. The sky glowed orange as night morphed into dawn over the vast emptiness of the Mojave.

Within two days, she and the little girl would be basking under the neon lights of New Vegas.

But that is another story. . .

(*****************************)

**A/N:**

Wow, what a long journey. Big thanks to everyone who commented. Although I may not respond to comments as much as other authors, know that your encouragement and praise is what kept me going

And with that, I will retire Fallout Fan Fics for a little while. I've hawked my ebooks several times, so I won't do it again, but I do want to let all of my readers know that I'm publishing a complete 350 page novel - The Navigator. The cover is my avatar - courtesy of the talented artist James Junior.

The novel will be released mid October and it takes place on a post apocalyptic water world - inspired by Fallout.

If you'd like to read it, I'm doing a promotion. PM me with your email address and when it comes out, I will gift you a free copy through Amazon. That's right, free! I won't email you - Amazon will - and I promise to never spam your inbox. (US only, sorry)

Otherwise, thanks so much for checking out my story and feel free to comment! You guys have been awesome.


End file.
